Too Visible
by chappysmom
Summary: With his gift of being invisible, John has always worried about being locked away in an experimental government lab. Baskerville is quite literally John's worst nightmare—and the hound has nothing to do with it. It's all Sherlock's fault, but will he realize that? Yep, it's an emotional rollercoaster, folks. 10 chapters
1. Chapter 1

Sequel to "Invisible" and "Still Invisible."

With his gift of being invisible, John has always worried about being locked away in an experimental government lab ... but what do you do when it's your best friend who locks you up? Baskerville is quite literally John's worst nightmare-and the Hound has nothing to do with it. It's all Sherlock's fault, but will he realize that? Yep, it's an emotional rollercoaster, folks.

As always, I own nothing but my own plot. The characters and world belong to ACD and the BBC. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked-all errors are my own.

##

The months after the Adler affair were fairly uneventful. John and Sherlock solved cases for Lestrade and even took one or two for Mycroft, despite Sherlock's complaints.

To John's relief, though, Sherlock's usual between-cases mania was tempered by an onslaught of fresh experiments on John's gift. Since the fiasco with Irene Adler, he was determined to see just how far it could go—and, more importantly, just how accurately it could be recorded. Until Mycroft told them, John had had no idea that his gift left any sign on digital recordings at all, and with the plethora of cameras planted by Irene Adler … well, both of them wanted to find out exactly how dangerous those cameras were to him.

It turned out that, while digital video cameras (like Mycroft's beloved CCTV) could capture what John still thought of as a heat-shimmer, night-vision cameras usually didn't have enough definition to record anything damaging. Heat-sensitive cameras acted much the same way as ordinary video. Traditional video on film or tape caught nothing at all, and neither did still photos. He was recorded on those as he always had been—just no telltale effect to show anything suspicious was going on.

John was getting better at diverting the attention of anyone watching cameras in real time, so that now he was able to manage not only people watching the cameras but people around him at the same time. His fine-tuning was getting better, as well. If he needed to, he could direct his gift only at specific people on the street, rather than just the "ignore me" bubble he'd been able to form his whole life.

He also discovered that he was able to vary the strength of his gift. Well, he'd known that in a vague way for a while. There was a difference between thinking "Move along, nothing to see" and "Don't look at me!" He'd even come close to fooling Sherlock once or twice, by concentrating particularly hard. But he'd found that it was possible to have actual conversations with people that didn't seem to register with them, just by pushing them a bit toward ignoring him.

Once he realized he was doing this, though, he stopped and refused to continue. It felt too much like brain-washing, or some sci-fi mind warp thing, for him to be comfortable. It was one thing to walk past someone and encourage their brains not to notice him. It was entirely different to be able to make someone completely forget they were talking to him. That was just creepy.

Honestly, it moved his gift in a direction he wasn't comfortable with. Part of him was curious as to what else he could affect—emotions? Thoughts? Physical actions? But John was a good man and knew that too much experimentation in that direction could go very, very badly. Keeping himself (and Sherlock) safe and unnoticed was one thing, but actual manipulation was quite another.

Not surprisingly, Sherlock didn't feel the same way. He felt any scientific query was worth the cost. It wasn't like he was _hurting_ people, after all, he told John on the train to Dartmoor, but John stood firm. "It's not right, Sherlock."

"I don't see why not. If you can walk right past a person who's looking for you, why would you balk at making him forget he'd seen you? Isn't it the same thing?"

"That's not the issue. You want me to be able to interrogate people for you and then walk away without them remembering, Sherlock. That's … like stealing! I don't use my gift to sneak into people's houses, after all, I just use it to stay unobtrusive. It's like camouflage. You're trying to turn it into something with offensive stealth capability, and I'm not going to do it."

"But what if my life were at stake, John? Or yours?" Sherlock leaned forward, eyes intent and steely blue. "If we were trying to escape a locked facility and needed to get an access code to bypass the security system and it was the only way to survive … wouldn't you want to know that you could do it? That it would work?"

John picked up his newspaper and unfolded it, leaning back in his seat. "I'm not going to ask about that highly specific question, Sherlock, and I'm not having this conversation. Let's just keep it simple—camouflage is good, stealth spy brainwashing techniques are bad."

"But you're saying you _could_ brainwash if it were necessary?"

"What? No, Sherlock. Just … no. We're not even going there."

Silence from the other side of the compartment. The only noise was the train whizzing down the track, but the silence was positively aggressive. He looked over his paper to see Sherlock staring at him intently. "What? This isn't a rhetorical question, is it? Is this about Henry Knight's case?"

"Very good, John," Sherlock told him.

"Wait, Baskerville? You're talking about _Baskerville_?" John was already shaking his head. "No, Sherlock, positively not. I am NOT going to try to sneak us into one of the government's highest security, most top secret labs. It's not happening."

John could think of few things that terrified him more than the thought of being trapped in a lab being studied for his gift. There was no way he was risking this.

"Don't be silly, John," Sherlock told him. "I'm not asking you to sneak us in. I'm asking if you could sneak us _out_ if things go wrong."

"And why would they go wrong?" he asked in his coldest, most steely voice.

"They won't, of course, but I thought you liked having backup plans."

John lifted his newspaper and gave it good shake. "We're not having this conversation, Sherlock."

#

"I don't know how you talked me into this," John muttered under his breath as they followed the young corporal into the building. They had already passed multiple security check points and weren't even inside yet. He didn't even want to go inside. The size and weight of the outer door alone made him very happy to stay out here, thank you. He'd be glad to scale the barbed wire, even, to get out if that made everybody happy. He very much did _not_ want to step foot into that building.

But … Sherlock was swiping Mycroft's pass and the door was opening. Mycroft's pass. That Sherlock had stolen. Because that couldn't possibly go wrong. John just knew he was going to end this day locked up somewhere—either in one of these labs or in a deep, dark prison cell. There was no way this was going to end well.

And yet, John had helped get them here. He'd pulled rank, even, to stop the questions that would just slow them down. (He had to admit, it had felt oh, so good to pull rank, too. He hadn't realized how much he missed it.)

This, he told himself, is exactly what gets him into trouble. Every time. Sherlock proposes something totally insane, John protests it as rationally as he can, but they end up going through with it anyway. He doesn't know how Sherlock does it, unless he's got some kind of secret mind control ability of his own. It was like he was surrounded by his own magnetic field and John was helpless to pull away. He could no more stop following Sherlock Holmes than the moon could stop circling the earth.

He hid a smile as they walked down the (scary, intimidating, sterile) hallway. Of all analogies to pick, he used the solar system—how ironic. Sherlock would never understand the joke.

Besides, he admitted himself, he wouldn't give up the adrenalin rush for anything. Nothing compared to following Sherlock, knowing that things are likely to go bad but that the other man trusted him to have his back.

John had spent enough time in laboratories to be impressed with this one. Clean, well-organized, and very … secure. From a security standpoint, he found it entirely admirable, but it gave him the willies.

He had no idea how Sherlock knew that Dr. Stapleton was involved with little Kirsty's missing bunny, but sincerely hoped it wasn't just the rabbit that had brought them here. They were risking life and liberty because of Henry's father's mysterious death, right? Not for a little girl's missing pet?

And that's when things went … bad. Sherlock got a text from Mycroft asking what they were doing, and then the sirens started to wail and doors started closing… John had never realized how claustrophobic he was. (When the hell had that started?) He kept his face straight as he and Sherlock headed calmly—outwardly, at least—for the door, but his brain was screaming "Help!" the whole time as he tried to keep calm and not let anything slip that their high-tech, high-security cameras might record.

No matter how small and invisible he wanted to be right then.

It was like a miracle, then, when Dr. Frankland introduced himself and pretended to know Sherlock as Mycroft. The two of them chatted a moment about meeting at some W.H.O. conference while John tried to remember to breathe and sought ways to lower his blood pressure. What the hell was wrong with him? He'd lived through a war, for heaven's sake, not to mention daily life with Sherlock Holmes. A little thing like breaking into an ultra-secure government lab shouldn't affect him this strongly, should it?

Except he knew that this was exactly the kind of place he'd end up in if the government ever decided it wanted to study his gift. The kind not just with a few bars on the windows, but massive magnetic doors and multiple security checks and ultra-secure levels with white, padded rooms and … you have to breathe, John, he told himself. God, this was a nightmare. This was his worst nightmare. This was worse than Afghanistan.

But no, look, see? You're out. Frankland and Sherlock got you out and the car's right over there. Hurry, but try not to look like you're hurrying.

Try not to insult Sherlock for being the worst kind of idiot until you're at least on the other side of the gates. You can always punch him later. Just ignore the way he's looking so smug and pleased with himself as he turns up his coat collar. It's not important. Just … get out of here.

#

"You were worried." Sherlock glanced at his friend as they drove away, noting the rapid breathing and pale skin.

"You think so?" asked John. "What gave me away?"

"I told you we'd manage. Mycroft's pass is always reliable, though I suppose he'll deactivate this one now."

He expected a short laugh or an ironic response from John, but instead his friend just sat and concentrated on breathing. Curious. John so seldom resisted a chance for a good quip, especially when he thought Sherlock had done something reckless. Why, then, was his reaction so severe? "What's wrong?"

"What's … Sherlock! We just broke into a top-secret government lab and were almost _caught_!"

"Yes, I know. The key word being 'almost.' Everything's fine, John. See? You didn't even need to use your gift. Frankland must really be a fan of your blog."

His attempt at conciliation was a failure, though, as John just glared at him from the other side of the car. Apparently he thought Sherlock had missed something. Usually that implied a social interaction of some kind, but there had been so few of those, here. Unless John was offended that he hadn't paid more attention to his odd panic attack earlier? Weren't friends meant to comfort each other when in distress? But surely John knew that he had had to concentrate on the security situation? There had been no time for coddling.

But, still, they were out now and he supposed it would be remiss of him not to tend to John's needs. Tea, at the very least, since he always found that so comforting. Ah, they could combine that with a visit to their client. Perfect. John would relax and everything would be fine.

Satisfied, Sherlock turned his attention back to the road.

#


	2. Chapter 2

This was much better, thought John. Tromping through a dark landscape hunting a giant, red-eyed hound in the cold mist of a Dartmoor night is just the ticket. Frightening as hell, but so much better than that lab earlier.

Was that a noise?

He turned, pointing his torch where the sound had come from, but … hmm. Apparently nothing. But, wait. Was that Morse code? U.M.Q.R.A.? What was that? He jotted it down, but it was probably nothing.

Which was exactly what he saw when he turned back to the others … nothing. Where had Sherlock and Henry gone? What happened to safety in numbers? No man left behind?

Still, though—stumbling around in the dark hunting a monster was _so_ much better than walking around Baskerville Labs.

There was another noise, a snapping twig, and he swung his head around. _Whatever you are_, he thought, _I am NOT here. You can't see me. There's nothing here to look at_. He stood as still as he could for a few minutes, telling himself that no, he was not afraid. He'd been in worse situations. He was just … waiting. Why strain his gift, after all? Let the mons… animal … move on so that they weren't on top of each other.

Except … what if it headed toward Sherlock and Henry? Where had they got to, anyway? What if they were in danger? He hurried on in the direction he thought they'd gone, ears straining to hear. His brain tried to convince his nerves—with limited success—that not every noise he heard was coming from a monster.

Finally, after far too long, he found them tearing along the path as if being chased. Henry terrified but also relieved. "He saw it too," he gasped out, vindicated and exhausted, and John tried not to worry about the look on Sherlock's face.

#

It was later that everything came to a head, of course. Sherlock Holmes learned what it was to be afraid, and John discovered just how hurtful his friend could be.

Yes, his friend. Or so he'd thought.

Oh, he knew nothing had really changed. He was well aware of Sherlock's emotional limitations and how bad he was at dealing with people—especially when his mostly-ignored emotions forced their way to the surface. He knew Sherlock hadn't necessarily meant to lash out at him, that he probably didn't actually mean to alienate the one person who insisted on being his friend.

But that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

As Sherlock's rant went on (and on, and on), John kept his posture straight, his face still. He thought that, if he just let Sherlock get this out of his system, it would be fine. They'd be able to get back to looking for the hound Henry insisted existed. He would just ride out this wave of vitriol like he'd ridden out the angst surrounding Irene Adler and then things would get back to normal. He would ignore how self-involved Sherlock was, how wrapped up his mind was in his own fear when he had completely missed how close to terrified John had been earlier in Baskerville. But that was nothing new. John was well aware that Sherlock's world revolved around himself. He was just glad to be a part of it. He would ride this out just like the last several sets of catastrophes.

And then Sherlock told him that he had no friends.

Even with all his patience and all his understanding that Sherlock didn't "do" people … that hurt. It was like a slap to the face and from one moment to the next, he felt himself completely fade away. He quietly leaned forward and said, "I wonder why," as he stood to walk away, but he knew it was pointless.

Underneath the hurt, his anger was raging. He wanted to rant right back at Sherlock about how this is _not_ the way you treat friends. That behavior like this was the reason he didn't have any, but John kept it all contained. It was more important to get away, get out of sight, get away from being hurt. All those hard lessons from childhood, when he'd learned that the people you care for the most can hurt you worse and deeper than any enemy came surging back, and even though he knew he was in no physical danger from Sherlock Holmes, he couldn't help himself.

He ran. He hid himself as well as he knew how so nobody would see, and he ran.

Finally, he stopped, panting in the dark and pulled looked around. He had no idea how far he'd run, but he was safe, away from danger. He tried not to think about how he was a soldier and should know how to face danger, but deep inside he knew that physical danger was entirely different than the ripping, emotional kind, and distance was the best defense—at least until things had calmed down. Physical danger didn't worry him at all, but he knew how frail his defenses were against emotional harm.

Blinking lights in the distance caught his attention. More Morse code? He hesitated—he really didn't care about Sherlock Holmes or his investigation right now. But then his sense of fair play woke and he thought of Henry, and so he crept forward, investigating. John was just as glad nobody could see him when he realized that instead of finding a secret spy broadcasting messages, he'd found the local make-out spot with someone too close to their headlamp switch.

He almost jumped when he received a text message from Sherlock. Well, apparently the man had remembered he existed. How lovely for him. He turned off his phone and put it back in his pocket before heading back toward the lights of the inn.

It took him an hour to cover the ground he'd pelted across earlier. He was lucky he hadn't broken his leg, the turf was so uneven. By the time he reached the inn, he was cold and tired and wanted nothing more than to have a hot shower and climb into bed.

He stopped at the door, though, when he saw Sherlock waiting in the lobby. It almost looked like he was watching for him, but that couldn't be possible, could it? The man had his phone in his hands, typing out a text message, a crease of worry between his brows and John felt a moment's remorse. Maybe he was at least a little concerned. They were still colleagues, after all. Though, probably he just wanted John to run an errand for him. Make some tea. Fetch his slippers. Pat his hand because poor Sherlock was so, so scared.

Well, just … no. John wrapped his hurt and his gift around him as tightly as he could, concentrating on the fact that Sherlock didn't need him and didn't have the right to see him, and slowly, quietly stalked past him on the way to the stairs. He saw Sherlock's head turn briefly in his direction, as if following a trace of scent through the air, but that was the only reaction, and John breathed a sigh of relief at his escape.

Yet, part of him felt broken.

For the first time, Sherlock hadn't seen him.

#

Sherlock hadn't slept at all.

Well, that wasn't unusual. Not when he was on a case. John's insistence that a person needed at least seven hours a night was ridiculous, but he wouldn't deny that the occasional nap could be refreshing. A waste of time, of course, but refreshing nevertheless.

While he often went a night or two without sleep when involved in a case, though, this had been different. He had actually wanted to sleep, wanted to give his brain some distance from the inexplicable events of last night, but he had been unable to sleep.

He had even anticipated the possibility of nightmares. He'd lived with John long enough to know that the subconscious would pounce on any perceived emotional weakness. Following the unprecedented fear he'd experienced the night before, he had considered nightmares a real possibility if he slept. However, he knew that the subconscious used REM sleep to help organize and deal with the events of the day, and considered that giving his brain a chance to recover its usual cool rationality would be worth the risk of a nightmare. In fact, he had almost hoped it would, certain that the experience would be informative since he could not remember having had a nightmare before.

The fact that he'd felt truly fatigued after the long day just added to the appeal of a few hours' sleep.

So, when he had been unable to fall asleep at all, he'd been surprised.

Oh, it was not unusual for him to have trouble falling asleep. Forcing his brain to stop thinking long enough for the bodily reflexes to take over and pull him into slumber was often a challenge (and the explanation for why he usually had to work himself into exhaustion first). He'd expected the whiskey to have helped him relax enough, though, and he had felt truly tired.

Except, he kept thinking about John. He remembered, with his fine, infallible memory, the look on John's face just before he left last night.

Sherlock was used to being the smartest man in the room at any time. He was accustomed to people's reactions to him, their dislike, or even fear at what must seem to be his uncanny ability to see everything. John, though, had always been the exception. He had accepted Sherlock's abilities and helped ease his way through interactions with other people with remarkable loyalty.

The problem was that Sherlock was unused to having a friend. It was unprecedented, in fact. In his 35 years, he'd had acquaintances for whom he'd felt a tolerance or even a sort of fondness. Mrs. Hudson, for example, had worked her way into his life in a way that was almost motherly, and he found that he appreciated that. He found Lestrade to be quite bearable to work with, also, and knew that the older man was one whom he could trust, more or less.

But John? John was a revelation. Not only did he seem to appreciate Sherlock's abilities, but he was actually useful. His marksmanship had come in handy more than once, and he was eager to help on cases, interviewing the more boring witnesses and doing legwork so that Sherlock could focus his attention on the actual puzzles. In between, it's true, he nagged him to eat, to sleep, to rest, to stop playing the violin at 3:00 in the goddamned morning, but it was all done with a sense of … affection. Nor had he allowed himself to be driven away by the body parts in the fridge.

Instead of being a necessary irritation in his life to help pay the rent, John had become a necessary _part_ of his life. And Sherlock had no illusions—not since Moriarty had strapped his flatmate into a bomb and shown Sherlock just exactly how important John was.

So, when he thought back to the night before and how John had sat patiently while Sherlock raved, he remembered how John had just let him go on. He hadn't passed judgment, hadn't mocked Sherlock for being afraid. He had actually tried to help. Right up until Sherlock went too far.

Because Sherlock knew he'd gone too far. He had told John—the only man who had ever actually been one—that he didn't have friends.

And John had left.

He had left him.

Sherlock cursed his memory for replaying the moment over and over—how John's face had grown still as Sherlock deduced the mother and son at the other table. He kept seeing the almost hurt expression as he had asked, "Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."

Sherlock would give anything to be able to go back and stop the conversation right there. If he hadn't said anything else, if he had just for once in his life managed to keep quiet, things would have been different. All he'd needed to do was sip his drink and _stop talking_ and John would have forgiven him.

Because even Sherlock knew that telling John _to his face_ that he didn't have any friends was unforgiveable.

Still, John had forgiven him for worse, hadn't he? Sherlock had given him a few minutes to cool off and then sent a text message. Henry Knight's therapist was in the bar and chatting her up would be good for the case (as well as balm for John's ego, which could only help). But for the first time in their acquaintance, John hadn't answered a text.

At first Sherlock had just been annoyed, but the fear which he had finally started to shrug off, rose up again. What if John had been hurt? What if he was lost on the moor with a broken leg? What if that impossible Hound was somehow real and had attacked him?

He sent more texts, but there was no response, and by then he had been pacing the lobby. He had to come back eventually, didn't he? Where else could he go? Henry's house was too far without a car and there were no other friends in the area with convenient couches. He knew John had left the building, so he couldn't be in his room, so … where was he?

It had been 2:00 a.m. before Sherlock had finally given up and gone to pace his own room. As much as he wanted to sleep, he found he couldn't. The frozen, angry, hurt look on John's face as he stood and walked away haunted him more than the remembered red eyes of the Hound he'd seen in Dewer's Hollow.

It was suddenly all too clear that Sherlock Holmes did in fact have one friend—and he had just driven him away.

#


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock started awake at 6:07.

He had finally dozed off around 4:30, he thought, but didn't feel rested at all, making sleep even more of a waste of time than usual, he thought, disgruntled, as he tried to decide what had woken him up. Was that a noise from John's room next door?

He bounded across the room and eased his door open. Was that a flicker of movement? No, there was nothing, just a faint whiff of coffee on the air. He must have been imagining things. Had John made it back to his room last night? Was he asleep in his bed? Suffering from his recurring nightmares?

He thought about tapping on his door, but remembering how cranky John could be when he was woken, decided it would be best to wait. 8:00 seemed like a reasonable time, didn't it? Early enough to catch breakfast downstairs, but not so early John could be upset at being woken up?

The faint smell of coffee tickled at his nose again as he shut his door and he found himself longing for a cup. The caffeine would be just what he needed, and its heat would be welcome. He'd seen a coffee maker, hadn't he? He set the pot and filled the machine with water and then went to shower so he'd be ready to start the day when John finally woke.

Sherlock tried to relax as the hot water pounded into his shoulders. He breathed deep, steamy breaths and tried to remember exactly what had happened last night to cause him and Henry to hallucinate that Hound. Because it had to be a hallucination. There was no such thing as a hound with glowing red eyes. Yet he had seen it, as had Henry, so what did that _mean_?

Could it have been a hallucinogenic drug of some kind? Possible, he thought, as he toweled off and padded out of the bathroom. John hadn't seen it, though, and he and Sherlock had been together all day, whereas they had only joined up with Henry just before going to the hollow.

Sherlock poured himself some coffee and added two sugars from the bowl beside the machine … and stopped. Of course. Henry had given them coffee, but John didn't take sugar in his.

Henry had an ongoing reoccurrence of this hallucination, but Sherlock had seen it only once—after drinking coffee in Henry's kitchen.

The drug was in the sugar.

It made perfect sense. Whoever was behind this needed Henry discredited, and what better way than by ensuring he had a constant, unwitting supply of the drug?

He would need to test it, of course. So his first course of action had to be to get a supply from Henry, and then he would need a test subject…

#

John woke early, unable to stay in his bed any longer. Sleep had not been a blessing this night, as his subconscious took advantage of his turmoil to taunt him with images of secure laboratories, with chairs like the one Jim Moriarty had ready to torture him with. He had been locked away, unable to move, useless—all while Sherlock stood there and watched with cold, dispassionate eyes as he performed his experiments, completely immune to his pleas for help until John finally just faded away, completely invisible.

Christ, but his subconscious knew how to make a point, pulling up all his worst fears to taunt him with. The only thing that had been missing was the Afghani insurgent with the gun that had shot him.

So, at 5:30, he was standing in the shower, desperately trying to chase away the images dancing behind his eyes. He had not been locked in a lab, he told himself. He had never been near Moriarty's chair. Sherlock had not used him for a lab rat. It was all a dream, he reminded himself.

Everything except the fact that he had walked right past Sherlock last night and his best friend hadn't seen him.

John turned on the room's coffee maker, grateful for the caffeine, and then layered a warm jumper under his khaki jacket and slipped out for a walk, going as quietly as he could so as not to wake the other guests.

Outside, the sky was lightening in the early dawn, but the mist still rolled across the moor. He hadn't walked for five minutes before his feet were soaked and he was chilled, but he kept walking, trying to put yesterday behind him, trying to forget his nightmares.

He ended in the church yard, going over his notes. No matter what was happening between him and Sherlock, he owed Henry some ease. The man had been beyond terrified last night, and John had no answers. He just hoped that Sherlock's brain was back to its efficient, impartial self this morning so they could solve this thing and go home.

He heard the gate creak and out of the corner of his eye saw Sherlock approaching, shrugging his shoulders inside his coat as if he were uncertain of his welcome. As if that were likely, thought John. Sherlock Holmes was never unsure of anything.

On the other hand, he was looking right at him, and John found that reassuring. If nothing else, Sherlock was back to himself. John just wished he could say the same for himself.

Naturally, Sherlock didn't do anything so normal as apologize, but just started talking about the case as if nothing had happened. After the night he'd had, though, John wanted none of it and calmly started to walk away, parrying questions about the Morse code from the night before.

"You didn't answer my texts," Sherlock told him. "Henry's therapist was in the bar last night and I had to talk to her without you."

"Yes, well, you've talked to women before, Sherlock."

"Not as well as you do. You would have gotten much further than I did—gotten more information, too."

John gave his head a small shake. "You're making jokes now?"

"Thought it might break the ice."

"It doesn't suit you. You should stick to ice," John told him, walking away with his shoulders erect, his old military stride falling into place.

"Listen, something happened to me last night, something I've never experienced before." There was an edge of urgency to Sherlock's voice as he reached out and grabbed John's arm.

"Yes. Sherlock Holmes felt afraid."

"It was more than that," Sherlock told him. "I actually saw it, John. I saw the Hound, but it's not possible. So, how, HOW?"

John just looked at him, keeping his face impassive. He really just didn't have the patience for more of Sherlock's histrionics this morning. Not when the man didn't even have the decency to apologize. He wasn't angry anymore, not exactly, but the hurt still rankled. So all he said was, "Yes, well, you've got something to go on then, don't you?"

He started to march away but stopped when Sherlock said, "I told the truth, last night. I don't have friends." His voice caught on the last word, catching John's feet as he walked. "I've just got _one_"

John froze. He'd never heard that tone of voice from Sherlock before. He remembered the frantic worry when he'd torn the bomb vest off at the pool, but this? There was desperation there, but also a hint of real fear—not the kind he'd been ranting about the night before, but the same fear of loneliness and abandonment that had been haunting John since last night.

It was probably as close to an apology as he was going to get, even if it wasn't actually an apology.

Hmm. It really wasn't, was it?

He just gave another nod and said, "Right," before turning to march away. He couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from twitching, though, as he heard Sherlock calling after him, babbling about how brilliant he was as a conductor of light? Nonsense, even slightly insulting nonsense, but it came from Sherlock, and John had already forgiven him by the time they saw Greg Lestrade waiting for them in the inn.

#

"What do you mean, we're going back to Baskerville?"

Going back into that white, sterile hellhole was the last thing John wanted to do that afternoon. The very last, behind a root canal, his annual prostate exam, or a repeat of the beatings his father used to give him

Sherlock was nothing if not convincing, though. "I'll deal with the Major about the security. You go on ahead and start checking the labs. We don't have any time to waste." And so John was here, walking around the labs _alone_ and trying not to be petrified.

It didn't help that the lab was suddenly empty, either. It wasn't that late in the day, why had everyone left, just as John came in? Worried about the inspection, maybe? But then why would they turn out the lights?

Seriously, why the hell had they turned out the lights?

He walked through a near-empty office with leaky pipes and rolled his eyes. In a place like this? God only knew what was in those things and oozing out into the air. He felt sorry for the poor sod who sat there every day. John couldn't get out of there fast enough. He couldn't get out of this whole, frigging, secret government base fast enough.

And, Christ, where had those lights come from? It was dark in here just a minute ago, and those were so _bright_. Then the sirens started to wail and John could feel the terror rising. This settled it. Baskerville WAS his nightmare. A mix of air raid sirens from Afghanistan, acrid laboratory smells like the alcohol on his father's breath, and the blinding lights from the examination tables of doctors from when he was small. They had never helped, they had just patched him up and sent him back home for more beatings. He could still remember the way the paper on the exam tables crinkled as he sat on it, while the adults—even his mother—talked over him as if he weren't there, as if his pain didn't matter, didn't exist.

That was when he first learned to become invisible. When he knew that he couldn't rely on anyone else to protect him, that nobody would keep his father from hurting him. He had only himself. He just had to hide so nobody could see him.

The doors wouldn't open. And now, instead of blinding lights and deafening sounds, everything had gone suddenly dark and still. The perfect kind of night for a Taliban raid. The kind of night when you knew something terrible was going to happen, but there was nothing you could do but wait and try not to show your fear, huddled in your bed and hoping your father wouldn't come in.

God, he was so afraid. He wasn't even sure of what, at the moment. His mind was a jumble of so many terrifying possibilities. His father. Getting shot. Being attacked. Being alone and helpless. His worst nightmare. Not just being lonely, but being completely alone, locked away from everything that was good in the world, to be treated as if he were just a name on a clipboard, a child that didn't matter. Something to be treated and poked and prodded but otherwise completely ignored. Abandoned. Discarded.

His heart was racing in his chest now as the room seemed to fill with the ghosts of his worst nightmares. Where the hell was Sherlock? Why had he sent him down here on his own? His hands were shaking now and he reached for the gun he didn't have and realized he was entirely helpless.

But, over there. The row of sheet-covered cages. He would crawl inside and hope nobody could see him. It was as close to safety as he was going to get.

His trembling hands pulled the door closed behind him as he huddled down, desperately afraid, terrified of so many things. Just don't let them see me, he thought. Just don't let them find me. I just need Sherlock. Sherlock will know what to do. Nobody else can help. Just Sherlock. Oh, God, Sherlock. You've got to find me.

He could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket but his hands were trembling too much to answer it. The overload was just too much. His brain just kept cycling between "Don't See Me" and "Sherlock, Help," over and over. All he could do was wait and hope that he would be safe until Sherlock found him.

#

"John?"

Sherlock opened the cage and looked at his friend, irritated that the man hadn't bothered to answer his phone. How was he supposed to run a proper experiment if he didn't receive all the data? John had obviously experienced _something_, but had he hallucinated the Hound like he was supposed to? He reached in to shake his shoulder, and only then realized that John was not just afraid.

He was terrified.

Not only that, he seemed almost catatonic, completely pulled into himself, lips moving. Sherlock leaned forward and heard the whisper, "No, Sherlock. No, please. Sherlock, please." As he realized how badly John was shaking, he felt a moment of guilt. The man obviously was reacting far worse than he had last night. (A thought which gave him a gleam of pleasure, but then, of course. His own mind was so superior to John's, that only made sense.)

Still, it was obvious he required help or comfort of some kind, and Sherlock reached in to ease his friend, and only then realized John was almost … fading … like a bad film reel. In his terror, his gift was going into overdrive.

It was fascinating.

"John? It's okay, John. You're safe," he said, gently pulling at his shoulders to guide him out of the cage.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was a whisper. "Don't let them find me, please don't let them. I knew you'd come, knew you'd find me, but don't let them see. Don't, please…"

The litany went on but Sherlock was confused. Hadn't he seen the Hound like he was supposed to? That would completely invalidate the results of this experiment—and after the favor he'd promised Mycroft!

Then he realized that this was a perfect opportunity to learn more about John's psyche. That could be valuable information well after this case was over. "Who, John? Don't let who find you?"

"Them. My father. The doctors. The Taliban. Please, just help me hide. They'll hurt me again and I don't … please. Don't let them find me."

Sherlock's face stilled as he realized—John wasn't afraid of the Hound. Of course he wasn't. The Hound was (it had to be) completely imaginary and John Watson was not a man to be afraid of imaginary evils. But that didn't mean he hadn't seen enough real evil in his lifetime to make up for it. How had Sherlock forgotten about the PTSD? John had real horrors in his life, and Sherlock had just purposely dosed him with a hallucinogenic designed to inspire terror.

He believed that that was not considered the act of a good friend.

He knelt down next to John and gripped his shoulders (carefully not squeezing the bad one too hard). "John, it's okay. Nobody is here but me. You're safe. You were just drugged—we all were."

The man's eyes were … Sherlock never thought he would see John Watson look so small and lost. He had seen the man frightened, he had seen him confused, but this? This was the look of a child who had not only gotten lost, but had wandered into a nightmare. Pure, desperate terror, but with a history of real-world nightmares lurking in the depths—the realization that some nightmares are real.

If it had been anybody else, it would have been utterly fascinating.

But, it was John, and it was Sherlock's fault he was in this predicament. His perfectly-formulated experiment to test the drugs in the sugar had been … well, he supposed it was a qualified success. It had clearly had its hallucinatory effect, even if John hadn't actually seen the Hound like he was supposed to.

"Can you stand?" he asked, and helped John to his feet, supporting his shoulders as he staggered. Once he was steady on his feet, he backed away. The John Watson he knew did not require coddling, but he did respond to challenges, and so he said, "Focus, John. It was just a drug, you're perfectly fine. Now we just need to figure out who and why. Come on."

He swept out of the room, knowing John would follow him.

All the while, his mind was storing John's reactions for future reference. Afraid of his father? And doctors? But John was a doctor—did his fear of them predate his career choice? If so, that was even more fascinating. It would be just like John to tackle his fears head-on. He really should have expected that John's subconscious would pull up terrors from the war, though. He had heard the man's nightmares often enough. It was possible that using John as his test subject might have been a Bit Not Good of him.

But … his father? Interesting. He would have to investigate that further later on.

#

John stood in Dr. Stapleton's lab, trying to make conversation as his heart rate settled back to normal. What had just happened?

They stood watching Sherlock muttering over his microscope while she chatted about her daughter's bunny and how he couldn't imagine how many things people were experimenting on.

She had no idea how much he really, really, _really_ did not want to think of government experiments right now. Still, it was a distraction. Glow-in-the-dark rabbits weren't exactly frightening, after all, and that was a comfort. And if Dr. Stapleton seemed just a little too eager to explore the possibilities? Well, at least she wasn't playing with cadaver parts in his kitchen or shooting at the wall.

John still wasn't at his best when Sherlock started ranting about how the sugar was just sugar. (What else did he expect?) And when he chased them out of the room so he could visit his mind palace, John was happy to take Dr. Stapleton up on her offer for tea.

What he didn't expect was the needle she plunged into his neck as they entered the lift.

The lift that was going down, not up.

His last thought as his legs went limp and he collapsed to the floor was that he hoped Sherlock would notice he was gone. And that Mycroft's all-access pass was as good as it was supposed to be.

#


	4. Chapter 4

"John?"

Sherlock blinked, refocusing on the lab around him. Oh, of course. He had left with Dr. Stapleton so they wouldn't distract him. No doubt they were doing something boring like getting cups of dreadful tea from the canteen.

He pulled out his phone to check his messages. Ah, a text from John.

"_Frantic call from Henry's therapist. He's got a gun. Suicidal. At the Hollow. Hurry. Going on ahead._

That certainly explained John's absence, Sherlock thought as he grabbed his coat, already calculating the fastest route to Dewer's Hollow. Now that he knew the delusions came from a drug (even if not administered through his sugar), he couldn't let the man kill himself. Or, at least, he knew John couldn't, and if John was throwing himself in harm's way, Sherlock had to go, too.

He would just have to piece together the scientist behind the H.O.U.N.D. group from Indiana later.

#

John couldn't move. He felt like a marionette whose strings had been cut. One minute he had been standing there talking with Dr. Stapleton and the next he was on the floor and unable to move a muscle. He was still awake, though his brain felt sluggish and frustrated. He couldn't even control his eyelids.

He felt hands rummaging for his phone as the lift dinged and John saw a pair of feet come in the lift, stepping over him as if he weren't even there. "This him?"

"Yes, be careful. We don't have a lot of time." Strong hands reached under him, lifting him to a waiting wheelchair as Dr. Stapleton finished typing a text and then moved to hold the chair steady. "We've got to make sure he's completely out of sight while Holmes is still on the base."

John heard a faint grunt and realized it was from him, trying to protest but barely able to draw a breath, much less contract it into words. His larynx was as paralyzed as the rest of him. There was a gentle pat on his shoulder. "Don't worry, Dr. Watson. You're far too valuable to harm. We just need to keep your presence quiet for a while."

"I thought Holmes was some high-muckety-muck? Isn't this his assistant?"

John wished he could roll his eyes, though at least he hadn't been called Sherlock's boyfriend again.

"Yes, but when I saw … he actually disappeared, Steve, right there in Lab 1. Holmes was doing some kind of experiment—I'm not sure what—but it absolutely terrified the man and he actually _vanished_. I have no idea how he did it, but can you imagine the ramifications? How useful that would be? It's worth the risk."

They were rushing down an empty hallway, now. From his half-open eyes and the way his head was canted on his shoulder, John was starting to feel queasy. Or maybe that was the conversation. Sherlock had been the one to lock him in the lab? Stapleton had seen him use his gift? He was in so much trouble. This was his worst nightmare.

He tried not to think about how many times he had thought that in the last 24 hours—just for things to get immediately worse. It was enough to make a man superstitious.

They turned into a room. Stapleton reached for the light switch and John would have flinched if he could have. This room could almost be where Moriarty had gotten his ideas from. A reclining bed/chair combination with all the straps and restraints a psychopath could wish for dominated the room, with a line of machines along the wall. Fear flooded him, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't so much as twitch a finger as he was lifted to the chair. The pair efficiently stripped him of his coat, shoes and jumper but left his shirt and trousers as they strapped him to the chair. Even when the drug wore off, he wasn't going to be able to move a muscle.

Stapleton was saying, "…since Holmes' pass is only good for 24 hours. After that, Barrymore will _never_ let him back in here, no matter what orders he gets. All we need to do is keep him occupied until the pass runs out. That'll buy us the time we need."

"So, we keep this quiet for another 12 hours or so and then what?" John was almost grateful to Steve for asking the question.

Stapleton stepped away from the table, into John's line of sight. She rummaged for a moment and then turned with another syringe in her hand. He couldn't believe the change in her eyes. They'd been having conversation between equals just a few minutes ago, and now he had devolved to lab rat status. Her eyes were entirely dispassionate as she stared at him.

"I'm hoping that we won't have to give him up at all—not until we're ready, at least. If he can truly vanish, he's too valuable to let go, and I doubt Holmes' connection has the clout to override that. Holmes will just have to accept that he needs to find a new assistant. Considering how he treats this one, it probably won't matter to him, and I'm sure we can make Dr. Watson quite comfortable."

She walked back over to John and inserted the needle in his arm, drawing a blood sample which she handed off to Steve as she spoke to John. "You're a doctor, a scientist of sorts. You must be as curious as we are about this talent of yours. I'm almost sorry the muscle relaxant makes it impossible for you to talk just yet, because I have so many questions. This doesn't have to be unpleasant, you know. If you cooperate, we'll make sure you have a comfortable room and you can participate fully in the research as a partner rather than just a subject. I know if it were me, I'd want to know as much as possible. It will be better all around if you cooperate … but trust me, Dr. Watson, it's not required."

She gave him a satisfied smile and then tilted the chair backward and started applying sensor pads to his head as Steve rolled up one of the machines from the back of the room. Within moments, it was looming over John's head and he was frantically trying to move a muscle, move anything at all, but his body was still completely limp and there was nothing he could do.

Dr. Stapleton gave his hand a pat and then reached over to close his eyelids, easing his burning eyes. "Don't worry. It's just a scanner—more advanced, but not all that different than an MRI. Nothing intrusive or painful." (John could almost hear the unspoken "yet" in her voice.) "I just need a high-def scan of your brain to see how you do that little trick of yours. In fact, if you could exercise it while we scan, that would be very helpful—though I suppose you might not be able to concentrate very well at the moment. That's all right. We have time."

He felt her adjust the straps across his forehead and under his chin as she slid supports next to his neck to keep his head still (because that was such a problem right now, he thought bitterly) and then heard her steps as she turned and walked away, followed by Steve. The door clanged solidly shut as she left, and John could hear the lock mechanism engage, leaving him in his dungeon of a room. A very clean, very sterile, very lonely dungeon.

Above him, the scanner hummed into life and John's brain stopped functioning at all as he was swamped in a wave of pure panic. This couldn't be happening. How had this happened? Twice in one night he'd been abandoned in a lab? Where was Sherlock? What if he knew? What if he had lied about needing to visit his mind palace as a ruse to get John to go with Dr. Stapleton? She had said it was Sherlock who had locked him in the lab earlier, hadn't she? What if he was complicit in this, too? What _had_ he promised Mycroft earlier? Maybe Sherlock had really meant it, when he said he didn't have friends.

As his panic and sense of betrayal overwhelmed him, John found he was grateful for one thing—being completely unable to move meant he couldn't embarrass himself by screaming.

#

The next two hours were a blur for Sherlock—in as much as events ever did blur for him. He'd rushed to Dewer's Hollow to find Henry and been immediately swept up in events. He'd been surprised to get there before John, but Henry's terror had been so extreme, there had been no time to wonder. Luckily Lestrade had arrived right on Sherlock's heels, and even if he wasn't nearly as good with a gun as John, he was of great help taking down the stray dog and chasing Frankland.

It wasn't until they were all catching their breath that Lestrade asked about John. "I don't know," Sherlock said, trying not to pant too obviously. "He said he'd be here. It's not like him to miss out on something like this."

He pulled his phone to send a text as Lestrade asked, "Where did you see him last?"

"He was with me at Baskerville but left with Dr. Stapleton while I was thinking." Sherlock said, watching the phone in his hand. It usually took John about 2.4 minutes to respond to a text when he wasn't at work. "She was telling him about her research on making rabbits glow in the dark. Or, well, that's supposed to be top secret, though I can't imagine why. What possible use can that be?"

"Since when does that matter, yeah?" asked Lestrade, looking at Henry's bereft face. "Government labs aren't known for their warm and fuzzy nature, are they? They'll try to turn anything into a weapon, won't they, just because they can?"

"Proper scientific inquiry has nothing to do with application," Sherlock said primly. "It's about acquiring knowledge."

"Yeah, well, the government is usually happier if it can put all its money to good use, isn't it? Have you never seen a spy film, Sherlock? Oh, never mind. Look who I'm talking to. But look at that poor sod. His entire life was ruined because one mad scientist crossed a line in the name of science. Where do you think Baskerville got its reputation?"

Sherlock just stared at him as the synapses in his brain aligned and fired in sync, his phone weighing in his hand. John hadn't yet texted back, but he had left the lab before Sherlock. Or said he was, but they only had one vehicle, and it had been waiting there for Sherlock. So, how had John left the base? He wasn't responding to his texts, either, and he always responded (last night's pique notwithstanding).

It was true that Baskerville was known for its highly-secure, top-secret experiments. John had fretted about that when under the influence of Frankland's drug earlier. Sherlock had assumed it was an objection to the science, but … now he remembered how worried John had been when Mycroft expressed interest in hiring him and exploring his gift. It had taken all of Sherlock's persuasion to let _him_ run tests—and John had always protested against the term "experiment."

John had not arrived at Dewer's Hollow as he said. He had not driven their shared vehicle. He was not answering his phone.

For that matter, his text referred to "The Hollow," as locals called it, rather than its full name of "Dewer's Hollow."

Had John even sent that text?

Had John even left Baskerville?

What if he was still there?

Sherlock remembered John's struggle with his gift in the lab, the way he had almost seemed to flicker in and out of sight. What if it had been seen by Dr. Stapleton, a woman with a hyperactive scientific curiosity and questionable ethics? A woman who heartlessly took back her daughter's pet for science. What might she do if she saw someone with a gift like John's?

The implications exploded in his brain.

"We have to get back to Baskerville. Right now."

#

The scanner had finally stopped, leaving John panting for breath. Dr. Stapleton had said it wouldn't be painful, but that hadn't been entirely true. It felt like a laser had touched every synapse in his brain, leaving an impression of heat and stimulation, like hot, tired, swollen feet after a long day. It wasn't exactly painful, but it was uncomfortable. He had the feeling that the slightest movement would explode his brain into a migraine of epic proportions. He was afraid even to think too hard until his brain had cooled back down to normal.

He just lay there—limp from both whatever drug Dr. Stapleton had used and from the emotional aftermath of the night's events. He knew Sherlock didn't think like normal people, but performing experiments on his best friend? Sure, they had run tests together on John's gift, but he had thought Sherlock understood there was a line between voluntary tests and unwitting experiments.

The thing in the lab earlier, though, had been for the case, for Henry's case. Sherlock had obviously made the decision in the aftermath of his own dosing with that hallucinogen. He had probably thought it was a fair turn-around, or that he had needed a known test subject. John didn't like it, but knowing Sherlock's obsessive dedication to solving a case, John could almost forgive that as Sherlock being Sherlock (no matter how much of a berk).

But, this?

Would Sherlock Holmes have handed John over to the Baskerville labs to be studied? As if he was no more than a pet, like Jim Moriarty implied?

John didn't think so, if only because Sherlock would want to run the tests himself, but … what if that had been Mycroft's price for the favor? He already knew Mycroft wanted to study his gift, and Sherlock's brother could be ruthless. The only thing that had stayed his hand this long was Sherlock's insistence on no experiments (other than his own).

Would Sherlock have given John up just to solve the case?

As John lay there in the dark, unable to move, terrified out of his wits … for a moment he feared that yes, he would.

But then he remembered the look on Sherlock's face at the pool, when he'd seen John in the Semtex vest. He remembered the look of wonder when he'd deduced the existence of John's gift—and the joy as the two of them tested its limits. He thought back to months ago, when Mycroft had chased them for 24 hours and Sherlock had given up the challenge solely so that an injured, exhausted John could sleep in his own bed. For that matter, that entire chase had stemmed from Sherlock keeping John from Mycroft's so-called tests.

Despite his hurtful words the night before, John was well aware that Sherlock Holmes considered him a friend. He had stood up for him against his brother, against Jim Moriarty, and against Irene Adler.

Sherlock would never have willingly let John be taken to be studied in a lab. (Well, by anybody other than himself.)

Which implied that he was out there looking for John—assuming he knew he was missing. John wished he had a better idea of the time. Dr. Stapleton had been so certain that getting Sherlock off the base would be easy—and that his getting back on would be impossible. How long was Mycroft's pass good for? And would the older Holmes be willing to extend it to save a battered ex-army doctor just because his brother asked?

Mycroft Holmes was still an enigma after all these months. He cared about Sherlock, it was obvious, but in a creepy, stalker-y kind of way. John didn't doubt that Mycroft would have gotten Sherlock out if Frankland hadn't helped them off the base the other day. But how far his beneficence went toward his brother's flatmate? John thought that entirely depended on how hard Sherlock was willing to fight for him—and he already owed Mycroft a favor today.

Though, John liked to think that he loomed larger in Sherlock's universe than a mere client.

He hoped.

John struggled again to open his eyes and was gratified when they finally (finally) flew open, giving him the tiniest bit of control over his own body again. Not that it would do him much good. The straps on this damned chair held him so securely, he wasn't going to be able to move no matter what, but still—he'd rather be restrained externally than be trapped within his own body.

He forced a deep breath and felt better for being able to manage it. At this rate, he might be able to move a fingertip any time now. Wonderful.

He couldn't see much beyond the bulk of the scanner over his head, but he was sure there was at least one security camera in this room. It might be an ultra-secret room on an ultra-secure floor, but there's no way a lab of this type would not have surveillance of all its subjects 24 hours a day.

So … there was a camera. And his gift showed on camera feeds.

Then there was Sherlock. John had to assume he was looking, and that he could access the security cameras (and he hadn't been banned from the base). Could John affect the feed on the camera to draw Sherlock's attention?

Christ, he'd never wanted to see his flatmate as badly as he did that moment. Even more than in the lab earlier. Then, he'd been terrified out of his mind and would have been grateful to anyone for finding him. But now? This was a whole different level of fear. That had been irrational and debilitating. This … well, this was all the more terrifying because it was entirely rational and totally out of his hands.

If the Holmes brothers didn't make an effort on his behalf, he was going to be trapped here for the rest of his life. That wasn't terrifying so much as terrifyingly chilling. He would never survive it. He would fade and become invisible until he became a new Baskerville legend—the ghost of an ex-army doctor who had disappeared one night, never to be seen again.

Trapped in this chair, his natural gift was not going to help him. Invisibility was not going to help him get out of physical restraints. They knew exactly where he was and he could not escape this chair on his own. His invisibility was an optical illusion, not something real.

But—the camera. All those tests he and Sherlock had done about affecting camera feeds, and manipulating the brains of the people watching them. The arguments about being able to affect the memories of people around him, the question on whether he could force their actions, their comprehension. In his desperation, suddenly, that didn't seem so unethical. Could he influence Steve to untie him? No, probably not.

What he needed to do was reach out to find _Sherlock_. He needed to make sure Sherlock saw the camera feed. All he had to do was make sure Sherlock knew where to find him. He just needed to attract his attention and then trust that Sherlock would do the rest.

He didn't need to be invisible.

No, he needed to be more visible, more noticeable than he'd ever been in his life.

#


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock waited impatiently for Mycroft to answer his phone.

"_Two calls in one day, Sherlock?_" his voice finally came, speaking lazily over the flick of turning papers in the background. "_I don't know if I should be flattered or terrified_."

"They have John," Sherlock told him bluntly. "At Baskerville."

He could almost hear his brother's attention come to sharp focus. "_They what?_"

"We were separated and I received a text saying he was leaving the base, but he didn't."

A huff of breath through the phone. "_And this leads you to conclude he's being held against his will?_"

"He missed out on the chance to protect our client and shoot at the Hound of Baskerville, Mycroft. You know how he would have loved that. He also had no way off base since our vehicle was still waiting when I left, and his text referred to the local "Hollow," not its full name of "Dewer's Hollow," as he had called it every other time. Believe me, Mycroft. He's in trouble."

"_And? I already gained you a 24-hour pass and that time is not yet up._"

Sherlock was pacing now. "Yes, but nevertheless, they won't let me back on the base. I need to get in there, Mycroft. He needs me." He could hear feel the frantic edge to his voice. It was so subtle he was sure Lestrade hadn't heard it, but he knew Mycroft would. He just hoped that the big brother who had helped when he had accidentally killed the sparrow when he was seven would help him now—now when it mattered so much more.

"_Does this have anything to do with guilt about your earlier experiment, Sherlock?_"

Sherlock shook his head, even though he knew Mycroft couldn't see it. "No. Or not really. We _fought_, Mycroft. Or rather, I said hurtful things that even I know were too harsh and then I went ahead with that experiment and … he was terrified, Myc. Not of the Hound, not even of Afghanistan—but of his _father_. And doctors, for some reason. The lab itself seemed to terrify him. And if he's truly trapped now by Dr. Stapleton wanting to do tests?" His voice broke. "Mycroft, I can't let that happen to him."

There was a pause and then Mycroft's voice came smoothly over the phone, calm and confident just like that day almost thirty years ago. "_Then we'll have to fix this, won't we? Though, with Dr. Watson's fear of government testing facilities, you do realize you're going to have quite a bit of damage control to do?_"

"Fear of…?"

"_Of course, Sherlock. Didn't you know?" Mycroft's voice was smug as he continued. "Why do you think he reacted so strongly to my employment offer several months ago?_" Mycroft's voice was gentle.

"Because it was you, of course," Sherlock snapped, "And you drugged him before you even bothered to ask."

"_Yes, I drugged him without his knowledge—with a truth serum. With what he said and his reactions to that helplessness, I immediately looked deeper into his history. He has good reason, Sherlock. Your earlier experiment was badly judged. It may have shaken even Dr. Watson's trust_."

Sherlock was stunned. How had he not realized? He had felt badly enough when he realized he'd forgotten to take John's PTSD into account, but now … "Please, Mycroft, I need to get him _out_. You've got to get me in there!"

He was begging, but he didn't even care. The extent of this catastrophe was staggering. What had he done to his friend? He took John's loyalty and courage for granted, he knew that he did, but could it survive this kind of betrayal? (Did it count as betrayal if it was inadvertent?) Sherlock could feel the panic beginning to swirl around him, just as it had at the Pool when John had stepped into the room. His breath was coming fast as he began to realize that his friendship with John might not survive this. That _John_ might not survive this.

Mycroft, as always, seemed to know exactly what he was thinking as his voice came calmly into his ear. "_Don't worry, little brother. I'll do what I need to and we'll get him out. It will be fine. Give me ten minutes_."

Mycroft rang off and Sherlock just stood there, stunned, with his mobile in his hand as the implications of the day's events completely shifted in his head. Everything he thought he knew about John Watson had just … shifted, and for a moment he wondered what else he had missed.

"Can he get us in, Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice came from behind him. "Christ, are you all right?"

"I … I didn't know …" Sherlock faltered as he struggled to reorganize his interpretation of John's character. "John has a childhood terror of doctors' offices and lab tests and … I didn't know. We've got to get him out."

Lestrade's hands were on his shoulders, grounding him. "We will. That brother of yours can do anything, can't he? He'll get us in and you'll do the rest. We'll get John out, but you need to focus. Come on, the Sherlock Holmes I know doesn't get distracted by emotion—you don't want to break character now. Take a deep breath and save the worrying for later."

Sherlock took a ragged breath. "You make it sound so easy."

"How do you think the rest of us human beings manage, Sherlock? Most of us feel emotions every day, especially in this job. You're just better than most at keeping them at a distance—which you have to do now, for John."

Sherlock nodded and took another breath. "You're right, of course. Mycroft said to give him ten minutes."

"Right. So, why do they have John, again? Is it to pressure you about this H.O.U.N.D. thing?"

Sherlock paused a moment, but the decision was obvious. Lestrade needed to know. "John has a … unique talent that they want to study. I didn't take the risk seriously enough when I brought him here, and it's because of me that his secret has been exposed. I _will_ get him out, but your help would be appreciated."

Lestrade had his familiar exasperated look on his face. "Of course I'm going to help! But, what secret? Can he blow things up with his mind, or something?"

"No," Sherlock told him. "He can become invisible."

"Right, pull the other one, Sherlock. I thought this was serious?"

"Oh, believe me Inspector, I am very serious. Have you never noticed how John can fade into the background at a crime scene? Remember when he was hit by that car a couple months ago and the driver swore she hadn't seen him—and neither had anybody else until he was lying on the ground?" Sherlock was striding across the grass now, knowing Lestrade would hurry to catch him up.

"You're serious."

"Very. Earlier today, I performed an experiment of my own which turns out to have been ill-conceived because it caused John to lose control and … fade … in front of a doctor who apparently decided that that could be a very useful skill and warranted being studied. She then abducted him while I was distracted and sent me a text directing me to Dewer's Hollow in the hopes that getting me off the base would leave them in undisputed custody of John."

Lestrade was practically running alongside him. "So, we're going to rescue him? From a top-secret government lab?"

"With Mycroft's unfortunately necessary help, yes."

"Because John can turn himself invisible."

Sherlock stifled a sigh. "Yes."

"Why doesn't he just, I dunno, walk through the wall or something?"

"He's not a comic book superhero, Lestrade," Sherlock told him with a sniff. "He just developed a highly unusual survival tactic. He doesn't actually become invisible so much as—unnoticed. He somehow convinces the people who see him that he's not worth noticing. He says it's like being an extra on a film set—there, noticed enough not to be walked into or sat on, but totally, boringly ordinary and not worth actually _seeing_. Just background. It's really quite extraordinary."

"I would think so," Lestrade said, clearly thinking over times when he'd been with John. "So, when that pool exploded and we found you two in that alley…?"

Sherlock was actually impressed. "Well done, Inspector. John got us out of the pool before it exploded, right past the guards Moriarty had left in the lobby and then out into the street without being seen. He saved both our lives that night."

"Christ, I would say so."

Sherlock gave him a sideways look. "I hope I don't need to impress upon you the importance of keeping this a secret, Inspector?"

"Of course not. I'm not stupid," said Lestrade. "Though I wouldn't say no to a demonstration when this is all over."

Sherlock's lips curved the tiniest bit. "Help me get him out of this, and I'm sure he'll be happy to, Inspector." Then his face fell again as he added. "I just hope he's still speaking to me."

#

To his relief, John was starting to be able to move again. Or, well, not move, exactly, but able to attempt it. This damned chair had some of the most efficient straps in existence, he thought. He didn't know how it was possible, but he truly, seriously could not move. There were straps holding his body down at forehead, neck, shoulders, waist, thighs, and legs—with bonus cuffs for his wrists and ankles. Talk about overkill. His ironic little joke about moving his fingertips wasn't so ironic anymore, because that literally was about all he could move. There wasn't more than a centimeter of wiggle room in any of these restraints.

And his head? Well, that was totally immobilized. He couldn't move it at all. The padded supports and chin brace kept everything from the neck up completely still. If he ever got out of here, he'd like to talk to their supplier because he sure could use restraints like these when he sends fidgety patients for MRIs. He considered himself lucky that he could blink.

Even with the escape skills he'd learned in the army (not to mention home experiments with Sherlock,who took his research very seriously), John really didn't see a way to escape this chair. Not on his own. After the last kidnapping, Sherlock had insisted he learn how to pick handcuffs and John could maneuver out of most ropes, given time. (Sherlock watching with a stopwatch in hand was a remarkable incentive, especially after a surprise attack when he bound John to a chair when he was due at work in 20 minutes.) Still, he didn't think even Sherlock could get out of this chair without help. Houdini wouldn't have been able to manage this.

Fine. He was well and truly trapped. It's not like that was anything he hadn't known since he was brought down here. He closed his eyes for a moment and drew another deep breath—or as deep as he could manage against the tight straps. This was not the time to hyperventilate. He had to concentrate. If he couldn't get out physically, he would just see if he could manipulate his gift.

He thought about Sherlock, and felt a moment's doubt and then forcibly pushed it out of his mind. No. Sherlock would not have done this to him. Sherlock would come find him. If he wasn't looking already, he would soon. John just had to hang in there and do what he could to help.

So—the cameras. He'd start there. He pictured the room in his head, remembering the placement of the chair and the camera's light from when he'd been wheeled in. He imagined how it would look on a grainy, black-and-white security feed, and then surrounded the image with the border of a computer monitor. He mentally placed the monitor in amongst a wall of other monitors in a security office, with a desk and a chair, a cup of cooling tea. Then he tried to reach out to the person he knew was watching the video …

It wasn't Sherlock.

His first reaction was disappointment. Maybe Sherlock hadn't noticed he was missing? Hadn't made it back into the base yet? Dr. Stapleton seemed confident that he wouldn't, but she didn't know Sherlock—or Mycroft.

Then he realized … he _knew_ it wasn't Sherlock.

He knew what Sherlock _felt_ like.

How was that possible? How on earth had he not noticed, not realized he could actually identify Sherlock with just his mind? All these months of experimentation, and he'd never realized that Sherlock had a distinct _feel_. Astringent with lemon, vivid with color and a whiff of honey, all with a hum of vibrating energy.

He'd never thought about the people his gift was acting on, not as individuals. It had always been about keeping himself hidden. Like a turtle hidden in its shell, he didn't care who was looking in his direction as long as they didn't see him. His gift had always worked on line-of-sight. It was only in recent months—since Sherlock started insisting on testing its bounds—that he'd discovered he could affect a person watching him via a camera. And that there didn't seem to be a limitation for distance, just perception.

But, for the first time he was thinking about the person _looking_.

But, what if the person he needed was close by, but couldn't see him? He'd touched Sherlock's mind so often—even without realizing—and Sherlock was the one person who could always see him. John had only ever managed to hide from him once, and it had taken all his concentration.

Didn't it follow that—since Sherlock could always see him—that John could therefore wave a virtual hand and draw Sherlock's attention whether he was near the security feed or not? Because his gift wasn't about optics. It had nothing to do with the physical mechanics of vision. It was about perception in the brain. And John was somehow always present in Sherlock's head.

So right now, all he really needed to do was reach out and … poke.

He was so busy concentrating, he didn't notice the scanner switching on over his head.

#


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock's phone chimed with a text from Mycroft and within seconds he was back at the Baskerville gate, demanding entry. It took several more minutes, but finally he was through and being confronted by Major Barrymore again.

"I thought you were done here, Mr. Holmes," he said, confronting him just inside the gate. "And who is this?"

"I'm done when I say I'm done, Major," Sherlock told him as Lestrade stepped forward and introduced himself. "Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard."

Barrymore's eyes narrowed. "We're not exactly in your jurisdiction, Inspector."

Lestrade held up his warrant card. "No? Last time I checked, the military was not exempt from kidnapping charges. I'm investigating a missing man, one John Watson. I believe you met him earlier?"

Sherlock blinked, surprised as Lestrade took the lead. He felt a moment's frustration—_he_ wanted to be the one to find John—but realized that Major Barrymore would deal better with a man with credentials he could understand. "All we need is proof that he left earlier, Major. I just need to see your security feeds. Surely that's not too much trouble?"

"You say Captain Watson is missing?" Barrymore still hadn't given an inch, but there was a chink of hesitation in his eyes.

"Missing, yes, and last seen in your lab, Major," Sherlock said. "It is the logical place to begin looking, don't you agree? He sent a message saying he was leaving, but he hasn't been seen since."

"And, the kidnapping charge?"

"Not a charge," Lestrade said, "I'm hoping it won't come to that, but we need to know that Doct … Captain Watson is not being held against his will. For all we know, he's sitting having a cuppa in the canteen right now and not answering his texts. We just need to be sure before we start searching the moor."

Barrymore stared at them, still belligerent but finally he gave a nod. "Fine. We sign all guests in and out, as you know, Mr. Holmes. What time was he supposed to leave?"

"His text was timed at …" Sherlock automatically glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see John, but there was nobody there. He hadn't realized how used he was to having John there. Shrugging it off, he said, "18:47. However, he did not take the Rover, nor did he arrive at our rendezvous. That's very unlike him. As Inspector Lestrade, said, though, it's possible he was distracted. He seemed fascinated by Dr. Stapleton's research."

Well, appalled was a better word for it, even if his fascination had had that horror movie, can't-look-away edge to it. Flirt though John often was, though, Sherlock couldn't imagine he was trying to chat up the doctor over tea. Implying he'd been intrigued by her research, though, might just get them back down to her lab again, which was just … his head turned again, sure he'd seen someone in the shadows, trying to catch his attention.

Nobody there. Sherlock frowned. It wasn't like him to imagine things—not without chemical assistance, at least. So why did he feel like someone was lurking just out of sight, trying to catch his attention? He turned on his heel, sweeping his gaze around them. There was nobody in sight, but the feeling wouldn't go away.

There! Right over there… no. Still empty. Could Frankland have his gas here in the main levels of the base? Except this feeling, while making him feel exposed and _watched_, wasn't frightening. There was no horror, no fear like there had been earlier. It just felt like he was seeing someone who wasn't there…

Of course.

_John_.

Oh, clever, clever John. Sherlock almost chuckled as he realized that John had done the unexpected yet again. Somehow, he'd turned his gift on its head and was drawing his attention rather than evading it. Oh, John Watson was a wonder. He would never stop surprising him.

Sherlock stopped and slowly turned in place, stretching his senses as much as he could, trying not to think, but just to feel. Trying to feel John's direction.

He paused in his turn and tilted his face, as if feeling the sun. There. He took a single step forward and was sure. That way was John, his true North.

He opened his eyes to see Barrymore and Lestrade staring at him. "Sorry. Just remembered something," he said, but he gave Lestrade a glance as he walked by, pointing with his chin. "How?" he whispered, but Sherlock just shrugged. He had no explanation, other than that John Watson would never cease to amaze him.

Barrymore was chagrined when the daily logs failed to show John's departure from the base. "You say he was with Dr. Stapleton?"

"Last time I saw him, yes," Sherlock said. "She was telling him about some of her experiments—nothing too secret, of course. Perhaps he couldn't tear himself away and lost track of time? What if you and Inspector Lestrade go check the security tapes while I go look in the lab?"

Before Barrymore could say anything—really, he wasn't very quick for a military man. Brain obviously stilted from too many years of following and giving orders. John was so lucky he'd left the military early—well, lucky except for having been shot, he supposed.

Still carrying the pass from earlier, Sherlock entered the lift and headed down.

#

John frowned slightly. Without being able to see any reactions, he couldn't be sure if his efforts were working at all. He wondered if that was what had limited him to line-of-sight for so many years—just the sheer lack of confidence that this could work if he couldn't _see_ it working? He knew enough psychology to understand the importance of behavior reinforcement and he was working blind, here.

Still, for a moment, he thought he'd seen? touched? felt? Sherlock, as if he'd tapped him on the shoulder to draw his attention.

He just had no idea whether it had worked or if he imagined it. But, still, he had nothing else to do, so he kept concentrating on reaching out to Sherlock, to touching him, trying to catch his attention. It was the oddest feeling, like reaching out a hand in the dark and blindly hoping to brush fingers with someone you're not even sure is in the same room.

But … there! Lemon and honey and incandescent color …

The door opened, locks clanging loudly enough that John jumped (or tried to) and his eyes flew open, concentration lost.

"Obviously you're feeling more alert," Dr. Stapleton said, glancing at the readings on the scanner over John's head as she reached up to touch something. "What are you doing?"

Damn. How had he forgotten about the scanner? It was likely recording everything he was doing, every brain synapse as it fired. He was giving them exactly what they wanted, exactly what he had tried to keep secret since he was nine. Damn it. Just what he needed—to provide them with physical evidence of his most dearly-kept secret. They really were never going to let him go.

This time, though, instead of panic, the thought filled him with rage … and adrenalin. The familiar rush of heat that paradoxically always calmed his nerves and made his brain more efficient.

With the way his head was braced, he couldn't open his jaw, but managed to grate out through clenched teeth, "Doing? I can't even move! What the hell am I doing here?"

He knew the answer, of course, but he needed to buy some time of his own as he tried to reconnect with that ephemeral awareness of Sherlock. He didn't have much of a choice. They had him at their mercy here, no matter what. They would record his brain waves or whatever regardless. His only choice was to either try to be as harmless and ordinary as possible and hope they got tired of him and let him go (doubtful), or to do everything he could to connect to the one person he was sure would get him out of this.

It was no contest.

So, as he half-listened to Dr. Stapleton telling him what they were looking for, he was _reaching_ for Sherlock. "You think I can disappear? You've been watching too many Harry Potter movies with Kirsty."

"I would have thought so, but I have the evidence of my own eyes, Dr. Watson. I saw you in the lab earlier. You were practically _fading_. It was fascinating." Her eyes kept flicking up to the scanner and John wondered what it was showing, if his efforts to find Sherlock registered somehow. (And, damn it, he had to admit she was right. As a doctor, he _was_ curious—but not enough to endure this.)

"That's impossible," he said. "You must have imagined it. You can't hold me here."

Her face was entirely dispassionate again as she looked him in the eye. "You're lying, Dr. Watson. Your heart rate is elevated, your blood pressure high, you're perspiring—which, yes, could all be caused by fear and a sense of impotence at being restrained, it's true. But I can actually see the activity in your brain right this moment and can SEE that you're lying. The question is why."

The strap across his forehead prevented him from raising his eyebrows, but he widened his eyes at her. "You've got to be kidding. You kidnapped me! You've got me strapped down in this lab and you're running tests as if I were a rat, and you want to know why I'm lying? Christ, doctor, even if I could make myself disappear—which I won't deny sounds quite appealing right now—why on earth would I TELL YOU?"

"What? No sense of scientific curiosity, Dr. Watson? No obligation toward the future of science? No desire to let your talent be understood and shared?"

John just laughed, as well as he could manage while restrained and unable to take a full breath, trying to ignore how warm it suddenly felt as his head began to ache again. "You've been working with monkeys and rabbits too long, Dr. Stapleton. You're worse than Sherlock. Did you never think to ASK? Maybe I would have cooperated in the name of science _before_ you drugged and abducted me, but now? You have got to be kidding."

He was still sending out his "I'm here" beacon for Sherlock and had never been so grateful for being able to multi-task. This was even harder than hiding Mycroft's rescue team from Moriarty while dealing with a concussion, but he was trying, re-doubling his efforts. He'd never used his gift this way, never tried to catch someone's attention before, so he couldn't be sure if it was working, but he wasn't going to give up. Even if it felt like his brain was overheating again. Wait, was that damn scanner running again? No wonder his brain felt so overworked.

Dr. Stapleton was eyeing him curiously. "Like Sherlock asked you about his experiment? Allow me to confess my surprise, Dr. Watson, that you would consent to a test that would leave you so terrified. Or—did he neglect to ask you first?"

John was struggling now. His gift wasn't meant to do this. It wasn't meant to reach out, it was meant to hold him close, keep him safe. Drawing attention was dangerous—look where it had gotten him! But it didn't matter. He needed Sherlock. He trusted him. No matter how he might treat John, Sherlock wouldn't let anybody else hurt him. He was sure of it. "He didn't have to," he gasped out as he felt his brain swelling, melting in the heat as sweat poured down his face. "He may be a self-centered idiot, but I trust him. Sherlock is my best friend. He would never hurt me on purpose. You, on the other hand, I don't trust at all."

She had stepped forward, a flicker of concern on her face as she glanced at the monitor. "What _are_ you doing, Dr. Watson? These numbers …" He saw her eyes turn to him with alarm "You're bleeding," she said, just as the heat in his brain rose until he could almost feel his brain cells melting. There was a burst of white-hot pain, and everything went black.

#


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock hurried down the hallway, trying not to think, but to rely on his sense of John to lead him in the right direction.

It was the hardest thing he had ever done.

Oh, he had relied on his instinct in the past. He knew that hunches and instincts were often products of connections not made consciously, even in an efficient brain like his. It was just that he was happier when he had a logical train of thought to follow.

But now, he was just following his nose like a bloodhound, tracking something intangible, unnoticeable to anyone else—just the feel, the essence of _John_.

Rationally, he should be coordinating with Lestrade, using the security cameras, methodically checking each room, each level. He would rely on his logic and deductions to determine his destination. It would be direct and clean and a thing of cognitive beauty.

Instead, he was feeling his way like a blind man, tracking something so faint and vague it might not even exist in anything other than a need in his heart pulling him along.

It made no sense, and yet with each step he took, he felt closer to John.

He had stopped at level 4 as before, but hadn't taken one step off the lift before he realized that no, John was lower and returned to press the button for level 5, cursing at the irrationality of the act, all while his instincts applauded.

While waiting for the doors to open, he thought about the _feeling_ of John. How had he not noticed all these months, how solid a presence he had? He'd grown so used to John's steady warmth at his shoulder that even though he wasn't there, Sherlock could still feel him, could still recognize that vanilla-candle, hot tea-scented steady presence when it beckoned him.

It defied all logic, yet he moved forward, tuned to John's signal as if it were a radio.

His phone buzzed. A text from Lestrade: "—_Room 572-4. Hurry. Looks bad._"

Off the lift, now, he eased his way down the deserted hallway with a sudden surge of desperation swamping him. Like a wave of static cutting through the radio signal, he lost contact with his lodestone for a moment and then he faltered, staggering beneath a wave of fear and pain along with a desperate, urgent longing for _him_ to help.

And then, nothing.

Just silence.

Without a thought, Sherlock went running down the hall.

#

Sherlock skidded to a halt just short of room 572-4. The door was ajar and inside… he gaped in horror.

John was strapped to a reclining chair in the middle of the room—if you could call it strapped. The sheer number of restraints seemed barbaric and shifted the entire scenario toward something akin to one of those ludicrous sci-fi movies John liked to watch.

But the true horror was John himself. He was totally unconscious, unresponsive, as blood poured from his nose and ears. Dr. Stapleton and another man were frantically working on him, shouting numbers and instructions at each other as they glared up at the monitor over John's head in disbelief.

Sherlock stood frozen in the doorway. John had only been here for a few hours. How was this possible? He looked … broken.

For one, endless moment, Sherlock knew what guilt felt like.

He had scoffed yesterday when John seemed uncomfortable in the lab. He'd thought at the time it was merely because John didn't like breaking the rules, but after his talk with Mycroft earlier realized that it went much deeper than that.

This. This scene unfolding before his horrified eyes. This was what John had been fearing his entire life.

And it was Sherlock's fault he was here.

He had brought John here to Baskerville. He had neglected to take John's discomfort seriously, and then he had _put him at risk_ by causing the events that betrayed his gift to Dr. Stapleton's curiosity.

And then he had made it worse. He had turned his back on John's (justified) terror to pursue the H.O.U.N.D. puzzle and left him unprotected, undefended, so that he had been abducted and submitted to this … atrocity.

This, after Sherlock had insulted him by insisting he had no friends. After Sherlock purposely drugged him and pulled up all the fears from his subconscious, merely to test a theory.

Sherlock had been right after all. He had no friends. Nobody who could treat his one and only, truest, most loyal friend like this deserved to have one. He did not deserve this man's loyalty.

He liked to think himself so superior, yet when it came down to it, John had tried to sacrifice himself for Sherlock more than once, while Sherlock casually threw away his devotion, his friendship, as if it were nothing. John had confronted Moriarty in a wheelchair with a concussion after having been _hit by a car_ to save Sherlock. He had tried to save him from Moriarty's snipers in the pool, and then actually _had_ saved him at the pool. John had been saving Sherlock since the day they met.

Oh, yes, Sherlock had saved John from the Chinese Tong. He had been frantic at the pool when John had been trapped in that Semtex vest. He had tried to keep him safe from his brother and from Irene Adler. Sherlock knew that he … cared. He did. He had _tried_ to be a good friend, but this was all new to him. He'd never had a friend before. He was still learning.

This sight in front of him, though?

Friendship was clearly one lesson he had not learned properly.

#

Blindly, Sherlock took a step forward. "What have you done?"

Dr. Stapleton looked up, almost desperate. "I don't know. He was awake, he was talking, and then the monitors went off the chart and he just … collapsed."

Sherlock heard pounding steps behind him but couldn't tear his eyes away from John's face as Lestrade came tearing into the room. "Jesus Christ," was all he said, and Sherlock couldn't help but agree. If a God existed, now was the time to call him.

He moved closer to the chair, pushing Stapleton's ineffective assistant out of the way and reaching for John's hand. He didn't know exactly what had happened, but he knew without a doubt that John had been looking for him, and he wanted him to know that he was here. That he hadn't abandoned him.

John's hand was clammy to the touch, unresponsive. "John," Sherlock said. "It's okay, John. I've got you. I found you. It'll be okay."

He looked up at Dr. Stapleton who was just standing there, useless. He'd never felt so furious in his life. "What did you DO?"

"Nothing!" She looked distraught. "I gave him a muscle relaxant but that should be out of his system by now. The only thing we did was a brain scan. They're harmless! I don't know what to do. There shouldn't be anything wrong!"

Sherlock glanced up at the machine over John's head. Ah, that explained the humming that was vibrating in his bones. "Turn that thing off," he snapped as he reached for the first of John's restraints. The least he could do was make John more comfortable, get him out of these damned straps. "Ten separate restraints for one man? A bit of overkill, don't you think?"

"We … we had to be sure he couldn't move. It would make the scans useless."

Sherlock snorted. "Because restraining a man unable to move a muscle requires such extremes. Idiot." He turned back to John and pulled away the strap across his forehead, stroking the red mark it left behind with a gentle hand before he reached for the restraint at his neck. (His neck! Why was that even necessary?)

Lestrade had pushed his way forward now and was helping unbuckle the straps as Stapleton and her assistant stood idly by, wringing their hands (literally in her case) in distress. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see a crowd at the door, headed by Major Barrymore, but he ignored them. His entire focus was on John.

He glanced at Lestrade who looked as stricken as Sherlock felt.

"Now what?" he asked.

Sherlock wished he knew.

#


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock held John's hand and tried to think encouraging thoughts. He felt ridiculous doing so, but considering what else John had managed tonight, it didn't seem as ridiculous as usual. Maybe it would help?

Now that the scanner was off, though, the nosebleed was letting up. His color looked better, too. That was good, he thought, and he said so to John. "I can see you, you know. I'm right here, John. I'm just waiting on you. The sooner you wake up, the sooner we can leave."

He felt John's hand twitch at that, and he responded by giving it an encouraging squeeze. "Yes, I said leave. You don't think I'd leave you here, do you? I'd be lost without my blogger. Come on, John. You've already missed the end of the case. Lestrade got to fire his gun, and you missed it. As soon as you wake up, he can tell you all about it."

He caught a half smile on Lestrade's face. He rather looked like he was about to gush as if over a child playing with a kitten. "You find this amusing?"

Lestrade was patting John's other hand and just said, "I'm just picturing the look on John's face, is all. Believe me, I know he's a better shot than I am. I know about the cabbie, you know. I'm not blind."

There was the merest flicker of muscle in John's cheek, but it was enough to encourage Sherlock. "And you thought it was a secret, John, but it appears Lestrade's not a complete idiot after all. Come on, now. Enough napping. Wake up so you can complain about how terrible your headache is—because I suspect it's going to be horrific. Is that why you're refusing to wake up? I suppose I can't blame you for that, but still—we can't leave until you're awake, and don't you want to leave, John?"

A flutter of the eyelashes at that and John's fingers definitely twitched in his hand. Sherlock could barely believe the relief he felt, but it was eclipsed when a moment later John asked weakly, "I missed the hound, then?"

"You were right, John. It was just a big dog, along with a hallucinogenic gas. I'll tell you all about it, though it's probably highly top secret. I don't think you'll be able to blog about it."

John's forehead creased and his face looked pinched in pain. "Not tonight," he muttered, but Sherlock was swamped with relief. He was awake. He was talking. It would be okay.

Dr. Stapleton stepped forward, about to say something, but stopped when Sherlock turned a vicious glare in her direction. "Just, don't," he told her. "You've done more than enough."

"I was just going to offer the infirmary," she said, faltering.

"No. He's coming home with me," Sherlock said firmly. "Just as soon as he's fully awake—right, John?"

For a moment, he was afraid that John would refuse, but felt a wave of relief when John's fingers tightened on his.

On some level, at least, John still trusted him.

The relief was unbearable.

#

John was swimming, drowning. He had passed out before, been injured before, but this … this was different. A different order of pain entirely, as if his brain was about to swell and explode.

Sherlock. He couldn't summon a thought, couldn't (didn't want to) make his brain do anything that might make the pain worse, but he knew he wanted Sherlock. Needed him. Had been searching for him when … ow. No. Don't. Can't reach.

The pain washed over him again, a flood of heat, melting away all thought, just leaving throbbing, stabbing, pain.

There were voices, but he tried not to listen. Listening meant processing data and he did not want to think. He just knew he needed Sherlock. He couldn't remember why it was so urgent, just longed for the comfort of his best friend. Sherlock would take care of him until he could bear to think, until the pain subsided. He just needed to lay here and wait. And not think. No, definitely no thinking.

More voices now, but gentler, somehow. And then Sherlock was there, being insistent, then John felt a wash of cool relief as the heat suddenly subsided. Ah, blessed relief, like the first cool autumn night after a hot summer. He felt hands on him, familiar, comforting and then he was able to draw a full breath again.

Sherlock. He could hear his familiar baritone speaking in unusually gentle tones, and … his touch. John felt his brows crease as he realized that he_knew_ it was Sherlock holding his hand, keeping him safe and talking nonsense. (Or, for Sherlock it was nonsense.)

He mentioned leaving, and yes, that was something John very much wanted to do. He wasn't entirely sure at the moment why, exactly, that was important. He wasn't sure where he actually was, but knew without doubt that he didn't want to be here. He wanted the pain to stop.

Wait. Pain. Leaving. Sherlock….

Baskerville.

The thought oozed through the hot lava that made up his brain cells and somewhere a memory flickered. "I missed the hound, then?"

He felt a surge of relief and paused, confused. He hadn't been the one frightened by the hound, had he? But Sherlock was saying he would explain so he could blog it, but he was just too tired and said so, and was rewarded by a sense of relief and humor.

This made no sense. Why would he find that amusing? All he really felt was tired, with a lurking headache that was going to pounce any time now, he was sure of it. What could possibly be humorous about that?

It was Sherlock, he thought groggily, then paused. They often laughed at inappropriate things, but what was funny about his head being turned into a sluggish volcano? Or, was it not so much that it was funny, as … he paused again. Relief tempered by … affection? But how did he know that? He had a sudden flash of warmth, but this time it was comforting and he couldn't help but clutch at it, cling to it as he lay trying not to think, not to feel, not to remember. Just to cling to the vision of home that suddenly appeared in his beleaguered head just before the pain surged up and overwhelmed him.

#

Sherlock's sense of relief at John's return to consciousness plummeted as he watched his friend's face contract in pain. Considering the fact that he'd been bleeding from his nose and ears, it wasn't unexpected that wakening would be painful, but this seemed extreme.

John's hand was clutching at his own and Sherlock tried not to grimace as he felt his knuckles compress just before John let go to reach up and clutch at his head, moaning and starting to rock in the chair before he and Lestrade grabbed his shoulders.

Dr. Stapleton stepped forward, a clinical concern on her face. "Let me give him something for the pain."

"As if we can trust you, _doctor_?" Sherlock spit out.

"I didn't want him hurt," she said. "This wasn't supposed to happen. I don't know what caused it, but I _can_ do something about the pain."

Sherlock looked at her, noting the creased brow, the way she was biting her lip, the angle of her shoulders. He glanced at John, who was whimpering now and banging his head against the chair, and exchanged a look with Lestrade, who nodded. "Fine," he said, "But I want to see the medication before you give it to him. I don't trust you, Dr. Stapleton."

She just nodded and hurried out of the room, returning moments later with supplies. Sherlock examined the unopened, clearly marked package and nodded, stepping aside so she could give John the injection.

It worked almost immediately, and John's body completely relaxed into unconsciousness with a sigh of relief.

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed, releasing a tension he hadn't realized was there. He was uncertain what to do. John obviously required care, but he had promised they would leave. Unconscious or not, protected or not, he was loathe to let John stay in Baskerville for one second longer than was absolutely necessary.

He hadn't counted on him being incapacitated, though. He had expected that, once found, John would be able to walk away on his own feet, but clearly that wasn't going to happen. They would either need to stay here until John was more himself (though not in this room, he vowed, no matter what else was deemed necessary), or they would need to transport him elsewhere and make sure he had whatever painkillers were needed until he recovered.

He turned to Dr. Stapleton and Major Barrymore. "Explain," he ordered.

Dr. Stapleton glanced at Barrymore and then said, "I only did a brain scan. Nothing intrusive. Nothing harmful. I don't know what caused this reaction."

"And why did you abduct him to begin with, doctor?" Sherlock asked, snapping hard on each syllable.

"You saw, Mr. Holmes," she said. "I would think you'd understand scientific curiosity."

"Curiosity, yes," he told her coldly. "Torture, no."

"It wasn't torture! I told you, we just did a brain scan."

"A scan which caused him to bleed from his nose and ears and suffer so severe a headache he was incoherent. I believe you need to examine your equipment, doctor. Perhaps it's not as benign as you seem to think." Sherlock glanced down at John. "You will give me copies of all your findings."

Major Barrymore protested. "That's not possible, Mr. Holmes. No data can leave this base."

"Data illegally acquired by abducting a war hero and subjecting him to illicit tests and causing bodily harm? I require this data in order to sufficiently direct his care when we leave here. I'm not asking for your findings on glow-in-the-dark rabbits, Major, but for the medical records of my friend whom you have grievously mistreated despite his rank and security clearance."

The Major was unhappy with this, but finally nodded. "Captain Watson's records, then. Nothing else."

"Fine," Sherlock said. He looked again at John's pale face and then met Lestrade's eyes as the man nodded. "We'll need assistance getting him to the car."

Dr. Stapleton looked horrified. "You can't … he needs medical supervision! At the very least he should be monitored for the next 24 hours—without knowing what caused this episode, you can't risk…"

"I can't risk leaving him here, can I?" Sherlock cut her off. "I promised him we would leave, and we are. I will not abandon him to your tender graces again, doctor. That went poorly enough the first time."

#


	9. Chapter 9

John stirred slightly, feeling smooth cotton sheets brushing against his skin, a soft pillow under his head. Already that was miles better than he'd expected. He wasn't in that damned chair anymore.

He lay with his eyes closed, taking stock. His head still hurt, but no worse than a mild hangover, which was also substantially better than he'd expected. He frowned, remembering the avalanche of pain that had swamped him last night (?). It had been worse than being shot in Afghanistan, worse than any pain he could remember. He didn't want to risk doing anything that would invite it back.

Right now, his brain felt … tender … as if it had been inflamed and swollen and, while momentarily better, could go either way if he pushed in the wrong direction.

Tentatively, carefully, he opened his eyes, ready to clench them closed again if need be. Cotton sheets covered in flowers. A puffy, green duvet. Wallpaper. A whiff of coffee. A hum of voices in the distance. His room at the inn. By the light, it was late afternoon. He breathed a sigh of relief and heard a rustle beside him.

He turned his head (carefully, so carefully) and saw Sherlock sitting in a chair next to the bed, legs crossed at the ankle as he paged through a file in his lap. "You're feeling better," he said with a tone of relief. "How's your headache?"

"About a five," John said with a grimace. "Though I'm afraid it's just not awake yet."

Sherlock reached for some pills and a glass on the bedside table. "Headaches don't wake up, John."

"Well, keep your voice down. Let's not upset it by telling it that. I'm much happier with it quiet." John accepted the pills and dry-swallowed them, chasing them down with the water with Sherlock's help before closing his eyes again. "What happened?"

Sherlock's voice was calm. "What do you remember?"

John jumped slightly as an ice pack was laid across his forehead, but then just let its coolness soak into his head. "Dr. Stapleton drugged me and carted me off to her lab," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "There was a chair and some monstrous scanner I'd never seen before that I'd really rather not think about."

"It was rather more than just a scanner. It does take quite remarkable pictures, it's true, but it also stimulates activity in the brain—which in your case led to yours essentially overheating, which is why your headache was so bad. The good news is that its effect should be temporary, so once you've recovered, you should be fine. No permanent affects."

John was frowning, remembering the hot, tired, swollen feeling from the first scan. That had been orders of magnitude different than the complete meltdown he'd experienced when he'd tried to reach Sherlock, though. He found he really didn't want to think about it.

Sherlock must have read that on his face because the next thing he said was, "Lestrade was quite worried about you?" Lestrade? The question must have showed on his face because Sherlock said, "Yes, he was most helpful last night. I would have had trouble getting you back to your room without him."

"So … he was there, then?" John's mouth was suddenly dry.

"Yes, and beyond indignant on your behalf."

"So, he … knows?"

"It was unavoidable, but I believe we can rely on his discretion. Apparently, he's known about the cabbie for months now."

"Oh. Right," John said, blankly. "How did you find me?"

There was a long pause before Sherlock answered, "I think the real question is how did _you_ find _me_?"

John pulled the ice pack from his head and squinted up at Sherlock. "It worked, then?"

Sherlock nodded. "It felt like you were tapping me on the shoulder. What did you _do_?"

"It occurred to me that being invisible wasn't going to help me and that what I really needed was to be as noticeable as possible. Then I remembered that I could make a person watching CCTV ignore me, so maybe the reverse was possible. I thought that, if you were looking for me, you'd check the security monitors and so I reached out to try to draw your attention instead of diverting it."

"But I wasn't in security."

John nodded, letting his eyes close again. "That's what was the weird part. I could tell. Somehow, I knew the person watching the cameras wasn't you, because it didn't feel like you. So I decided to try to find you, whether you were watching a camera or not. I didn't know if it would work, but I was … kind of desperate at that point."

"It did. I kept thinking I saw you from the corner of my eye. It was really quite annoying," Sherlock said in a thoughtful voice.

John felt himself wince, reminded how little Sherlock liked being disturbed. "Oh. Yes, well … I'll try not to…"

"You said 'if,' John?" Sherlock's voice was unusually harsh.

"What's that?" John opened his eyes again to see Sherlock leaning toward him, eyes intent.

"If." Sherlock said, "You said _IF I was looking for you."_

John nodded, remembering the doubts of last night and hating himself for them. The medication which rose up then and pulled him down came as a relief as the room slid away.

#

Sherlock wiped the steam away from the bathroom mirror and examined the face looking back at him. It was extraordinary. It looked exactly the same as it had two days ago. One would think that emotional upheaval would leave some sign, something more than a pair of slightly tired-looking eyes.

He couldn't deny that John's doubt had hurt.

Oh, he couldn't blame John. He'd been drugged not only with Frankland's hallucinogen by his best friend, but also by whatever Dr. Stapleton had given him. That, followed by the disorientation caused by the so-called scanner, would reasonably cause muddy thinking. He was probably just lucky John hadn't known about the earlier test in the lab.

It still hurt, though, which surprised him. When had John's good opinion grown so important? Sherlock had welcomed Lestrade's orders to go and 'make himself presentable' as an excuse to get away from John's accusatory, if unconscious, presence. He would figure out how to fix this, that was all.

On the other hand, even in his extremity, John had reached out—quite literally—for Sherlock, knowing he would help. That one fact gave Sherlock hope that their friendship might still be salvaged. Now all John needed to do was wake up. Surely twenty-seven hours was sufficient for recovery?

He finished dressing and returned to John's room. As he unlocked the door, he heard Lestrade swear. "Christ! Where'd he go?"

Sherlock flung the door open to see Lestrade frantically looking under the blankets and on the floor around the bed. "He was right here a minute ago, Sherlock. He started having a nightmare, and now he's gone!"

Sherlock hurried to the bed and frantically pulled back the duvet, only to breathe a sigh of relief. "It's okay, Inspector, he's right here."

"What? Where?" Lestrade was staring at him as if he were the one seeing things.

"I did tell you about his gift, did I not? He makes himself _invisible_, Lestrade. Really, after the night he had, I can't say I blame him for not wanting to be noticed, but yes, he's right here. Dreaming, no doubt."

Lestrade was just staring at him. "If he's invisible, how come you can see him?"

Sherlock smiled, a little smug. "I keep telling you—you see, but you don't observe. John is always visible to me."

"Not always," a sleepy voice objected as Lestrade blinked in disbelief at the bed, obviously seeing John again.

Sherlock did not allow himself to be distracted by that, though. "What?" he asked.

"You didn't see me the other night, after … you know. When you told me you didn't have any friends."

Sherlock ignored the appalled look on Lestrade's face, hoping his face didn't look quite so shocked. "What do you mean? You left the building."

John nodded, eyes still closed. "Yeah, but I walked right past you in the lobby when I came back around 1:00. First time you really didn't see me." He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. "Sorry to scare you, Greg."

"That's all right, mate. Seeing is believing, after all."

"Or not seeing, in this case," Sherlock responded automatically, but his mind was still reeling. He hadn't seen John? He found himself staring now, cataloguing the familiar hair, the shape of the nose, the very _John-ness_ of him. "You look more rested, now."

"You do," Lestrade confirmed. "How're you feeling?"

"Better," John told him with a smile. "Much better. Just a slight headache, nothing like before. Thanks for your help."

"I'd say any time, but I'd really rather not have to do that again, so try to avoid it, would you? I don't know how much my heart can stand."

"I will definitely do that," John said with a wince as he pulled himself up against the pillows. "I don't suppose there's tea? I don't think I could stomach coffee." Was Sherlock imagining the accusatory inflection on that last word?

Lestrade headed for the door. "I'll see what our hosts can do about room service since I don't think you should be out of bed yet, mate. You've been asleep for over 24 hours, you must be starving."

Silence reigned for a long moment after he left before Sherlock blurted, "I didn't see you?"

John just shook his head quietly, still pale against the sheets. "Is it my turn to apologize?"

"What do you have to apologize for? I'm the one who's made all the mistakes the last three days."

"Not all of them, Sherlock. I could have said no at some point, you know, or tried to tell you …. And I could have waited for you to find me rather than pushing myself into whatever state I was in that caused that headache."

"It wasn't your fault," Sherlock said. "I told you I only have one friend, John, which means I don't have much experience at this. I'm bound to make mistakes, but, make no mistake. I don't want you to ever doubt that you _are_ my friend. I may have been unforgivably careless, but I assure you, you are far too important to me to abandon." He reached over and laid his hand on John's for a moment. "Did you really doubt that I would come for you?"

John swallowed. "No," he said, but his voice caught in his throat and Sherlock flinched. "Not really, but I heard Dr. Stapleton telling her assistant that you were the one who locked me in that bloody lab earlier. I admit that I wondered if you'd given me up in exchange for Mycroft's help … but just a for a minute. I knew you wouldn't leave me there if you could help it."

Sherlock could feel that his face had gone pale and cold. "You really thought I would do that?"

John shifted uncomfortably. "Just for a minute, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I'd just been drugged twice in about an hour and was terrified. I wasn't exactly thinking clearly."

"No, you were," Sherlock said, his voice rough. "You were wrong, mind you. I'd never allow Mycroft to touch you, let alone anonymous government minions. You have to know that. But … it's clear that I have not behaved as a friend should. It was not the act of a friend to run tests on you when you were so clearly uncomfortable about being in Baskerville to begin with."

"But that's what you do, Sherlock," John said quietly, his face calm. "I know that. We should probably discuss boundaries at some point, and maybe clarify that there are certain lines you should not cross without at least asking permission—but I know you wouldn't hurt me."

Sherlock stared at the bedding as if memorizing the cabbage rose print was the most important thing he'd ever had to do, unexpectedly shaken by John's faith. "You _are_ my friend, John, and a better one than I deserve. It's entirely my fault you suffered that doubt. My actions have not been such that would lead you to believe that I would defend you. Or that, in fact, I value you … very highly. Any apologies should be mine."

John wondered what was in the pills he'd swallowed earlier. "I must still be hallucinating. I could have sworn you just apologized."

"Yes, well, I have no control over what occurs in your subconscious, do I?" Sherlock asked with a small smile. If John was willing to banter, that meant there was hope he'd forgive him, didn't it?

#


	10. Chapter 10

John was desperate to rinse away all traces of Baskerville from his skin and, while waiting for Greg, insisted he felt well enough to take a shower.

The hot water was blissful, beating away the aches he hadn't realized he even had, they had been so outclassed by the pain in his head. He stood there for countless minutes until he realized that he heard voices outside the door. Greg was back with the food, and he was hungry.

In fact, he was starving. Now that the pain had dropped to reasonable levels, his stomach was making it clear that it felt neglected. John dried off in a hurry and threw on the pajamas he'd left hanging on the back of the door … was it only yesterday? Two days? He opened the door to be met by the scent of tea, eggs, bacon, toast … his stomach grumbled even louder.

"Greg, you're a saint," he told him.

The inspector grinned in reply. "I think they're still afraid of me from our chat. They were more than happy to help."

"Curious that they have bacon," Sherlock said, "Their claim to vegetarianism really is questionable."

"Don't be silly, Sherlock," John told him as he reluctantly climbed back into bed and accepted a tray in his lap. "Bacon counts as its own food group. Everything is better with bacon."

Silence reigned for a time as all of them (even Sherlock) concentrated on eating. It wasn't until they'd all appeased their hunger that John asked, "So, how did you know I was in trouble?"

Sherlock's face lit up as he began to spew all the deductions that had let him to the realization John was in trouble and his subsequent actions. "You called Mycroft for another favor? Twice in one day?" John was unexpectedly flattered.

"Mmm." Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of toast. "Luckily, he was so incensed that they would treat someone visiting under his auspices so poorly, he was really quite amenable. Baskerville may be highly secure and protected by the strongest secrecy measures possible, but I'm sure he'll make Dr. Stapleton pay for … overstepping … though she claims everything in Baskerville comes under her purview for 'non-invasive' research or something. Once you were safe, I got bored. Mycroft will sort it out."

"So, does he own my soul now, or what?" John asked.

"Don't be silly, John. You can't sell someone else's soul," Sherlock told him.

"It sounds like you know," Greg said with a grin, "And I don't want to know how. What I do want is to know more about this gift of yours, John. If you wouldn't mind."

John sighed. He had known this was going to come up. It wasn't that he didn't trust Greg, but … He glanced up and realized he'd let too much time go by. "Sorry. It's just weird to talk about it, yeah?" At the other man's nod, he continued, "It's something I've been able to do for as long as I can remember. I just make myself … unremarkable, easy to ignore, so that people don't see me."

He sipped at his tea and carefully concentrated (_very_ carefully, considering his healthy respect for the headache he'd woken with). To his relief, though, it was easy—easier than usual, almost. He slipped into his gift as if he were putting on his slippers after a long day.

Greg's eyes grew wide. John knew he'd accidentally used his gift this morning when he'd had that nightmare, but the deliberate disappearance obviously made more of an impact. (Or Greg just hadn't believed the evidence of his own eyes earlier—who could blame him?)

He let go and just enjoyed the look of utter amazement on Greg's face as he reappeared. (How did that look to people, he wondered? Until Sherlock, he'd never had anybody to ask, and anyway, had always been careful to be subtle.)

"John. That's … that's … I don't even know. Amazing." Greg's face was alight with wonder and John couldn't help but smile back at him as he gently reached over to Sherlock and hid him, too, just as Greg turned to say something. "Sherlock!"

John couldn't help it. He burst out laughing, and relaxed his concentration to let Sherlock ease back into view. "Sorry. I couldn't resist."

"But … " Greg was sputtering. "I thought it was just you!"

"The gift is John's, Inspector," Sherlock told him, amused, "But over the years he's learned how to extend it to others."

"Which came in handy in Afghanistan, as you can imagine," John said, still chuckling. "And naturally Sherlock's been eager to experime…" His voice trailed off abruptly. For a brief moment he'd almost forgotten what had happened yesterday. (The day before? He kept forgetting he'd lost an entire day.)

An awkward silence settled around the room then, until Greg said with a grin, "That's typical Sherlock. Did I ever tell you about the time he blew up my squad car?"

John looked up, diverted. "Really? He didn't!"

Greg dove into the story of when he was still a Detective Sergeant and a junkie-who-would-be-nameless had mixed a unique blend of chemicals just before his stash was confiscated, but neglected to mention that it would likely end in a burst of chemical gas that would cause the boot of his car to explode. Sherlock protested that he was exaggerating, but he was smiling and John felt the tension draining. It was just Sherlock being Sherlock, after all.

"…And, of course, when I tried to ream him for it, he told me that I would have known it was going to happen if I'd just _observed_," Greg was saying.

"If I had a nickel for every time I've heard that," John said, "For a man who doesn't like to repeat himself, Sherlock does have some favorite sayings."

"Mantras."

"Personal slogans."

"Mottos."

"Words to live by."

"Demands."

John was laughing by now, and so was Greg. He even thought the sour look on Sherlock's face was leavened by a hidden smile playing at his lips. John lifted his tea cup in a toast. "He's reliable in the most unreliable way. You never know what he's going to do, but you can count on him to be there."

"Yes," agreed Greg, "Usually telling you everything you've done wrong."

"If you gentlemen are quite finished?" Sherlock asked, his voice biting, and John and Greg just laughed even harder.

John sobered after a minute, though. "I really am, you know. Grateful. To both of you. For getting me out."

Greg looked almost embarrassed and made shooing motions with his hands, but Sherlock unexpectedly glanced away. After a few moments of awkward silence, Greg said he really needed to get back to London, and before long, it was just John and Sherlock.

#

Sherlock watched the door close behind the Inspector and turned back to John. He had slid back down between the sheets, curled away as if hoping he wouldn't be seen. Sherlock frowned, wondering if that's exactly what he was doing—since it never worked on him, he was never sure when John was exercising his gift.

"About the experiment, John," he said, feeling it was best to get it out in the open.

"Don't worry about it, Sherlock," came the response with a sigh. "I know it was just you being you. Rescuing me from Baskerville afterwards makes up for it, so just … leave it, all right?"

Sherlock nodded briefly, and then felt stupid, knowing John couldn't see him. "All right. But … I wanted to ask…."

Another sigh as John rolled back over and looked at him. "What, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sat back in his chair, picking up his cooling tea. "You weren't afraid of the hound. You were afraid of doctors. And your father"

John nodded. "I'm amazed I didn't have worse nightmares last night."

"You can probably thank the morphine." Sherlock saw the surprise on his face and nodded. "Yes. You were in that much pain. I was … relieved … when you woke up lucid this morning. But … why _doctors_?"

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" John traced the pattern on the sheets nervously, Sherlock thought. Stalling. "My father … beat me. When I was a kid. You knew that? Right. Well, my mother would bring me to the clinic when it was … bad … and, nobody ever…."

He broke off in frustration, obviously looking for the right words, so Sherlock suggested gently, "They didn't do anything to stop him. They just treated your injury and sent you on your way with a lolly and never actually _helped_."

He couldn't believe the rage he felt, but John was nodding. "Yeah. It got so that I didn't trust any of them, and just sitting on the examination table just … continued … whatever Dad had done, made me feel less important than ever. It almost made it worse because …."

"Because they were supposed to help. It was their job to help." Sherlock could picture it so clearly. A young John Watson, battered by his father, sitting stoically while his injuries were tended to, knowing that he was just going to be sent back to face more of them. "No wonder you joined the army," he mused aloud. "You've spent your whole life on the battlefield."

"That's one way to look at it," John told him with a tiny smile. "Or I just wanted to learn as many ways to kill him as possible in case he ever came after me again."

Sherlock was relieved to see a gleam of humor in his eyes—no matter how dark. "And you became a doctor…?"

"To show those bastards how it's supposed to be done," John said, his voice flat. "Mind you, I never particularly wanted to work with … with battered kids. But a doctor is supposed to take care of his patients, not forget them the minute they leave the office. You can't stop the horrors from happening, but you're supposed to at least try help the ones in front of you."

Sherlock eyed him with something like awe. "You never cease to amaze me, John. You are absolutely extraordinary." He saw the skepticism on his friend's face and hurried on. "A healer and a soldier who can fade into the background, ready to leap forward to attack or defend, whatever it takes to protect those who need protection. Absolutely extraordinary."

He saw the skepticism on John's face and leaned forward. "You don't believe me? John, I spend my life observing others and solving puzzles, and you … you are one of the most fascinating puzzles I've ever come across. You are deceptive—not on purpose. You are far too forthright to be able to deceive … except that you _do_. You can be deadly, yet you hide under these cozy wool jumpers with this bland look on your face, and people don't _see it_. They see your compassion and your good nature, but they don't see YOU.

"Your very gift, John. You use it to hide from people, yes, but for so much more. Camouflage, you called it? Fine, except, you're a _soldier_. You don't use camo so you can _hide_. You use it so you can launch an attack without being spotted. Look at the other night—they thought you were defenceless, but you weren't. The whole time, you were planning a counter-attack and they never saw it coming."

John was staring at him, stunned. "But that's not … my gift isn't … it's not meant to be used that way. That's why I passed out, trying to twist it to call attention to myself. I've never done that before."

"Wrong." Sherlock shook his head. "I can think of at least three times in the last 48 hours alone."

"What?"

"You think things went bad because you were twisting your gift?" Sherlock tried to infuse as much assurance into his voice as possible. "No, that wasn't the problem. It was the scanner making your brain overheat that caused trouble. You used your gift to call me earlier that day, too."

John shook his head. "No, I would have known."

"Not necessarily, John, not if it's instinct," Sherlock told him. "When I found you hiding in the lab, you were muttering, "No, Sherlock, Please." At the time, I thought that you were asking me for help, but in retrospect I realize you were _calling me_. I didn't realize because I was focused on you anyway because of the … well …"

"Because you were using me as a guinea pig in your experiment, yes," John said, his voice dry. "But that doesn't prove anything."

"Perhaps, but what about the day before when I was using Mycroft's pass? You were calm enough as we went in, but after the sirens started, you were almost claustrophobic. You weren't quite panicked, but think about it. WHY would Frankland have stepped forward to help? Just because he reads your blog? He killed Henry's father and was systematically driving Henry insane—not exactly a compassionate individual. Yet when you called for help—help came."

John just stared, mouth agape. "That's … no, Sherlock. That doesn't make sense. My gift has always just helped me hide."

"And yet you were found on the battlefield after you were shot. Even the blind banker affair—I used logic to solve the cipher, yes, but still—black tramway? Not that obvious, yet I almost instinctively knew where to go to rescue you and Sarah." Sherlock leaned back and steepled his fingers. "You may have needed to hide from your father when you were a child—and he's just fortunate he's no longer living, incidentally, or we would have words—but you are not a coward. You are a fighter, and so your instinct is to both hide and attack—and your gift reflects that. It's fascinating, John. It seems to be able to do whatever you need it to do. It's really quite annoying."

"Annoying?"

"From a scientific standpoint, it makes no sense, John. Psychic abilities are illogical to begin with—just as impossible as huge, glowing hounds—and yet there you are, doing the impossible."

He watched John's face carefully, trying to judge his reaction. "If only I had a pound for every time you've called me illogical," John finally said. "You can't prove any of that, Sherlock."

Sherlock couldn't help the smile spreading across his face. "I'm a scientist, John. The only way to prove or disprove is to …"

"Experiment," John finished with him. "How am I not surprised?"

"Not until you're well again, of course," Sherlock assured him.

"Oh, of course. Ta." John's voice was calm, but Sherlock saw his eyes darken slightly.

"You've admitted you usually enjoy my experiments."

"More than being strapped to a chair and tortured? Well, I suppose that's true. Because we're not doing that, Sherlock."

"Definitely not. I much prefer willing participants." John just looked at him, one eyebrow raised, and Sherlock almost felt himself blush, reminded of his experiment in the lab. "I do prefer them, John, but sometimes it skews the data. And I knew you'd say yes if I'd asked."

John drew a deep breath. "Yes, well … none of that, for a while at least, yeah? I've had enough involuntary experimentation to last me for quite a while."

Sherlock nodded, relieved. "Agreed. On the plus side, I got copies of all of Dr. Stapleton's results. They're fascinating, John. I wonder if the stimulation caused by that scanner is lasting, or if it only worked while the scanner was running."

And he proceeded to explain why, telling John what the scan had shown, and quizzing John as to what he had been doing. He ignored John's groan and melodramatic burrowing under the covers. He knew John Watson wouldn't hide under the covers for long. His hard-learned first instinct might be to hide from trouble, but his second … well, that was when he attacked, and woe betide anyone who wasn't prepared.

Because John Watson could be terrifying and deadly. It was just that most people never saw past the mild-mannered façade.

John Watson was fascinating, and for a moment, Sherlock pitied all the people who never saw it, and counted himself lucky, because, after all, John Watson was his friend.

#

Which is why Sherlock didn't mention the text message he received from Mycroft an hour later, while he was packing his things for the return to London. It wasn't something he could (or would) keep secret indefinitely, but it could wait until they were home and John was well.

After all, John would need to be well rested for whatever was coming. He glanced back at the phone, trying and failing to think of this as a continuation of a game, rather than something to be dreaded.

_-Moriarty escaped._

##

NOTES: (And, yes, I am trying to work this AU into the Reichenbach canon, though I haven't quite finished it yet. There WILL be at least one more piece to this series, just … I need to figure stuff out first.)


End file.
